


the revelations in your skin

by afterism



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Hair Pulling, Inconvenient Feelings, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pegging, Post-Canon, of the oh no i really enjoy seeing hans in pain variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 105,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's got some issues to work through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. accepting the risk of winter.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [how pretty Hans's distressed face is](http://25.media.tumblr.com/e22cebcf8b5637e28b7f665c4a6a46e6/tumblr_mzmd7oeYz21qbfcx6o2_250.gif) and this prompt on the Disney Kink Meme:
>
>> When Hans gets back to the Southern Isles, his family is so disgusted with him that they disown him and send him back to Arendelle in chains - there's a tradition in the Southern Isles that punishment is determined at the hands of the victim, so that means he's Elsa's to do with what she will.  
> Elsa doesn't have the heart to kill him, and doesn't want to let him out of her sight - he might use that silver tongue of his to turn the guards against her - so she's at a loss as to what to do with him. Eventually, perhaps even without realising it at first, she discovers the answer is to domme the fuck out of him. (And then they both realise that they really like it oh no)
> 
> This was just meant to be porn. orz.
> 
> Also, this was previously posted under [animmouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/animmouse)! Explanation, of sorts, on the last chapter's notes.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: unnegotiated kink, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks (in terms of Elsa and how she struggled with her powers), consent issues (everyone _does_ consent, but it's in a jailer/prisoner situation and Hans being terrible and manipulative situation - tbh, no one is entirely in control).

They bring him back in chains.

There's a commotion down by the docks at midday, raised voices loud enough to be heard up at the castle, and by the time Elsa slips through the side entrance to the Great Hall there's the noise of a scuffle outside the main doors, and a boy in Southern Isles livery rushing up to her, red-faced and tripping over his words.

"Your Majesty," he starts, and bows so swiftly she flinches, expecting to hear a crack of bone. "I'm so sorry, we sent an envoy to explain but it would seem they never arrived and it appears you had no idea we were bringing him, but we can't possibly leave again without-"

Elsa raises a hand to stop him, calm him, something, and he splutters into a silence that echoes around the hall. There's a note of panic beating solidly in her chest, because something is _wrong_ , everyone staring at her wide-eyed and watchful, and she swallows down the instinct to run when the familiar weight of expectation settles on her shoulders. Her face shifts calm and content - everyone's looking at her like she has all the answers, and until she knows why she's going to act like she does - before she glides over to the head of the room and sits on her throne. The messenger follows, stopping a few paces in front of her.

"Explain from the start," she says, drawing herself up as she thinks, something is wrong, and it's my duty to fix it. And then, "Please," she adds, as the boy looks like he's ready to pass out.

"Prince Hans," the boy says, anxious and breathless, and Elsa recoils as the main doors finally swing open and her guards lead a man inside, bound at the wrists and ankles by thick iron bands linked with thicker chains. He stumbles and fights and at one point feints to the side and manages to get free for just a moment, but he's hauled back by his collar a second later. "He is your prisoner. His fate is laid entirely in your hands."

Three of her guards drag him halfway across the room before throwing him to his knees and pointing their spears at his neck, and he moves to get up before he feels the sharp end scratch his neck. He stills. Elsa sits up a little straighter to look at him, as Hans adjusts his cuffs around his manacles: there's dirt smudged on his cheek and three days worth of stubble across his jaw; a dark brown line on his bottom lip like it had been bleeding a couple of days ago; his clothes look the same as the ones she last saw him in, except crumpled and scuffed and dirty and without his cravat; his hair is a grimy mess and he looks slightly hollowed out, like he has not slept for days; he looks _awful_ , and something vicious and satisfied shoots through her before she raises her chin and turns her attention back to the messenger boy.

"It is the tradition of the Southern Isles that in cases such as these, er -," he stumbles, as Elsa's gaze flicks to the center of the room again and he glances over to find the prince glaring at him hotly, "-that, um, that it is the privilege of the one most grievously harmed to administer punishment. Meaning, er, he is yours, Your Majesty. And you can't give him back."

She flicks her eyes back to the boy and raises an eyebrow, a fluttering in her stomach that might be the beginnings of hysterics, and he flushes scarlet and stares firmly at the floor. She looks back at Hans to find him staring at her, and her heart gives a jolt, hard and angry.

"And if I refuse?" she asks, her voice surprisingly steady, and Hans doesn't look away.

"He will be taken back to the Southern Isles, and immediately executed," the boy says, splintering a little, and the hall falls silent. Hans ducks his head.

"Leave us," she says, not raising her voice, and every bystander in the room flees. The guards linger for a moment, spears still trained on Hans's neck, but she glances at them quickly before nodding and they leave, closing the main doors behind them with a ringing thud. 

Hans eyes are fixed on his manacles like he doesn't dare look up again, and so for a long, silent minute, she just studies him. Thinks about everything he's done, tried to do, nearly succeeded at, and the fluttering in her stomach turns into a nauseated roll, a visceral urge to _hurt_ him. Takes a breath, and thinks about the nobility of mercy.

"Prince Hans" she says, trailing off like a question and almost gently as she tilts her head to the side, frowning. "I'm supposed to _punish_ you?"

"Queen Elsa," he starts, catching her eye before bowing his head. "If I may ease your burden - how about just letting me go?" he says, gazing up at her wide-eyed and guileless, a perfect imitation of innocence, and Elsa bites down on the rush of loathing and rises from her throne like a storm.

"You tried to _kill_ me," Elsa says, cold and strong and each word like a blow as she stalks forward and grabs his chin, forcing him to look up at her. The room drops cooler, ice crackling on the windowpanes, but she doesn't notice.

"Sorry?" he tries, and grins like a question mark. He looks _terrified_ close up, eyes so wide and darting endlessly between her and the throne and the frost covering the windows, and his uneasy smile just makes him look like an idiot.

God, she almost pities him.

"You left my sister to die," Elsa says instead, like a shield against the rolling of her stomach, her voice almost cracking at the end as she doesn't need a reminder of what she's facing, and she ignores the way her blood is rushing hard and fast as she lets her fingernails dig into his jaw.

"That was unfortun-" he starts, and she slaps him sharp across his cheek before he can finish, leaving him stunned and staring at the floor. Frostburn glows raw against his skin.

"Ow," he says, quietly, and Elsa's palm is hot and stinging, and something like a thrill runs through her, catches her breath as the hall rings with silence. She digs her nails into her palm to steady herself.

For a few heartbeats they both just wait, collecting themselves as Hans steadies himself against the floor and every breath comes a little ragged before lingering in a cloud between them. Elsa stands stock still in front of him with her fists clenched. They listen to the silence until Hans shifts so he's sitting straight again, works his jaw a few times, and decides to change tack.

"Elsa, if we're being honest with each other - and really, after all we've been through together, I think we can be - banishment is the most obvious solution. You don't have to see me, _Anna_ doesn't have to see me, and I've already been forcibly removed from my own home so I figured, what's another country I may never see again? I'm told the mountains are spectacular this time of year," he says, and flicks his gaze up. His grin is a little sharper.

"No," she says, and steps away, her arms coming up to cross her chest as she clutches at her elbows. She seems to shrink somehow, drawing in on herself. His eyes follow her footsteps and he clasps his hands together, smoothing his thumb under the edge of his manacle to ease the pressure. "Everything that happened - it was my fault for not listening, for pushing Anna away."

She glances back at him and he shrugs, like she was expecting an answer. "Don't expect any arguments from me. I defer to your judgement in all matters," he says, tilting his head so he's looking up at her through his eyelashes, a hint of smirk in his carefully deferential expression. Something like a scowl twists across Elsa's mouth as she waves him off with a distracted flick of her wrist and turns away. 

"I can't possibly let that happen to anyone else, so I _must_ keep you here," she says, hushed and passionate and convincing, but she's so quiet Hans has to strain to hear her, and this isn't working at all;

"If it's any consolation," he starts, and she turns her head just enough to see him over her shoulder. "Do you know how irreplaceable your sister is? Do you have any idea how many unmarried princesses there are around here? Because it took me a really long time to find someone both pretty and dumb enough to believe in _true love_ -"

She grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back so viciously his yelp comes out strangled, and his hands automatically come up to grab at her but she neatly steps to the side, precise in her fury, and bares her teeth as she looms over him. Ice cracks across the floor. "So, this is what I've been given. I'm meant to just keep you, here, forever?"

"Well, apparently it's that or kill me," he says lightly, a little strangled and breathless, but his eyes are dark and pained-narrow and fixed on hers. His head pushes into her hand as he tries to lever up away from the floor, the cold snapping at his shins.

She takes a breath, licks her lips, and for the first time seems to notice the ice sweeping across the floor and up the walls. "I'm not a killer," she says, softly, and she wants to crush the hope that flicks through his eyes, wants to wring it out of him and grind it under her heel. Instead, she lets go of his hair and takes a step back, clasping her hands behind her and forcing her shoulders down. She thinks of Anna, of warmth, and the ice covering everything begins to dissolve into the air as Hans looks around him in open surprise, and she finds herself watching him (and in the back of her mind there's his voice stabbing sense through her fear, as her palace splinters around her -)

"Guards!" she calls suddenly, and the Great Hall is as warm as ever as the doors swing open as fast as heavy ancient oak can, and Hans shifts; chin up, shoulders a little straighter.

Six of her soldiers march into the room and come to a halt a few paces away, waiting. "Take him to the dungeons, keep him chained," she says, and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, "And don't let him talk to anyone."

Two step forward to grab him by the arms, hauling him to his feet, and even though he doesn't quite fight he still glares daggers at the guard on his right and tries to pull his arm away. "I can walk," he snaps, all pride and indignation, and doesn't look at Elsa as he turns on his heel and stalks out - the effect is somewhat ruined by how short and loud each step is as the chains around his ankles clank together, but he keeps going and the guards have to rush to catch up, one on each side grabbing his arms again and forcing him to stay between them. Elsa presses a hand to her mouth and ducks her head for a moment.

Her chin is up and her hands are loosely clasped in front her by the time Hans is being lead past the doors, her face smoothing calm and gently attentive as murmurs and mutterings start to trickle in moments before the people do. Some look at her, some scanning the hall for a hint of something scandalous, like this is the first test of her reign (and - it kind of is, only a few, quiet weeks since Arendelle settled back into summer and so far she's only had to commission new ships to replace the few that were truly ruined by the frozen fjord). Not a snowflake is left, and her placid, practised smile holds fast.

 

The day spills into night and Elsa lies in bed, finds herself staring at the ceiling as she chases too many thoughts without focus to be able to sleep. With a sigh she rolls and twists and lands on her back again, flings one arm out to the side and without considering it she lets her hand drift down between her legs, presses down in lazy circles until she finds that spot that makes her feel like she's being slowly pulled apart. Her hips tilt into it, curling her spine like a slow crashing wave as she finds that warmth that blooms under her fingertips and she lets her fingers roll in tighter circuits, the slightest tingling heat building without any destination. 

For no reason at all her mind drifts to the way Hans's eyes flashed wide and dark when she pulled his hair, and the way he breathed after she'd struck him, soft and small and gasping, and her toes start to curl as she pushes her pelvis up into her hand, her fingers circling tighter and harder and something's building, something sparkling and warm and aching, and -

Her hand flies away like it's been burned.

Elsa clutches at the mattress cover with her hands as far away from her body as she can, and stares wide-eyed up at the dark ceiling. "Oh _no_ ," she whispers, and then buries her face in the blankets.


	2. Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head

"Everyone thinks you're going to turn him into an ice statue," Anna says, as morning dusts the mountains pink and gold. Breakfast sprawls across the table in front of them, and Elsa stops picking delicately at her salmon and drops her fork.

"I _wouldn't_ ," Elsa starts, and Anna waves her off.

"Well, I know that," Anna says, and smiles at her, but that's it, there's everything that's crowding out her appetite - the expectation wrapped in her hands and her world wrapped up in Anna, everything she wants to protect, and keeping Hans here is the absolute worst idea. But, she thinks, and twirls her fork between her thumb and index finger, what else is there to do? There's not a single person in Arendelle who doesn't know what Hans did and oh, there it is, because he did so much; protected her people from her powers while she experimented with isolation; left her sister for dead and tried to execute her; but only one of those happened where her citizens could see, where they were actually affected (and, yes, she credits them with more than that, not mindless and simple and reactionary, but -)

The thing is, she needs to figure what to _do_ with him. Keeping him in the dungeons forever seems foolish, somehow - too simple, and easy, and _kind_. Killing him remains, as ever, an awful urge against everything she must be. She won't. She can't. 

"What should I do?" Elsa asks, and for moment Anna looks delighted, unguarded and open and still so thrilled that Elsa wants to talk to her about anything important, before she blinks and bites her lip, frowning down at the boiled eggs.

"Kick him out of Arendelle, I guess," she says, after a pause, and Elsa sighs. 

"I _can't_ ," Elsa says, and pushes her food to the side of her plate. "I can't let him have any kind of freedom, or send him anywhere that he might be able to do more damage. He's more dangerous where we can't keep track of him."

"Set Marshmallow on him? See if Svalbard will take him? Lock him up in the ice palace and make him live on snow?" Anna says, and Elsa glances at her, and finds her lips tugging up into a grin. 

"This is serious, Anna," she says, the twist of her mouth sending her words laughing.

"Then maybe you should talk to Hans about it," Anna says lightly, before catching her eye and grinning in her ridiculousness, and Elsa is so caught up in the rush of love she feels for her sister she doesn't notice the idea settling in at the base of her skull.

She's out of the dining hall and halfway down the corridor by the time the thought unsticks, becomes something tangible. Her footsteps, soft thuds muffled by the carpet, slow as the staircase looms ahead, and she starts to wonder if maybe talking to him will - well, not clear her head, exactly, but maybe give her some perspective. Find out what he's like when he's caged. Figure out if she can cope with simply keeping him (a thought, dark eyes and raw skin, looms, but she resolutely shuts it down). She hesitates, runs the flat of her nails along the curl of her fingers, and then turns on her heel.

There are voices drifting up to her as she steps down into the dampness of the dungeons, the flickering light of the torches reaching out of the darkness, and, oh, what else did she expect - a guard leans by a closed cell door and calls through to a voice that answers all open and laughing and honest, a lie in every syllable, and she's kind of fascinated how it turns her stomach.

Her cough rolls out of her throat quiet and barbed, and the guard turns his head lazily towards her and then startles, launching himself away from the wall and his spear slipping from his hands before he grabs at it, the base clattering against the flagstone. There's a noise that might be a laugh, rough and wooden, lost under the cacophony of his shuffling. She sets her hands neatly in front of her and raises her chin, simply looks at him, and every minutia is an invitation to explain.

The guard switches his spear from one hand to the other and back again, and can't quite look her in the eye. "Your Majesty! I was just - talking. Interrogating! the prisoner," he tries, and she raises one eyebrow. "For the good of... Arendelle?" he tries again, quickly slipping as Elsa raises an eyebrow, and then, "I'm having relationship trouble," he finishes in a whimper, and she blinks away the roll of her eyes and looks past him, to the only locked door down there.

The silence weighs thick and metallic. She considers all the ways this was a terrible idea (flirts with the possibility of banishment again, still all temptation and unkept promises), and then, eventually, "You are dismissed," she says, and the guard all but deflates in relief as he drops the keys on the table and vanishes, just the brief sound of a stumble on the stairs echoing back as he runs. 

Waiting would feel too much like an admission, like she needs time to steady herself, and so she doesn't hesitate in snatching up the keys with a loud jangle and striding straight over to the only locked cell. 

"Your Majesty," Hans says, amused and mocking and without a note of sincerity as she steps inside. There are no torches in here - only the single, thickly barred window letting watery light paste faint stripes on the stone, and Hans sits half-shadowed on the bench. He doesn't get up, lounging with his head resting against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest and his arm outstretched on top, chains hanging heavily from each wrist. He looks, inexplicably, better than yesterday; like he managed to get more sleep than she did.

"I'll admit, I did not expect to get many visitors," he says, when Elsa just studies him instead of speaking, finding no pity lingering beneath her still-burning hatred, and she glances back towards the door without thinking. The dungeons are deathly silent, deep enough beneath the castle that the only sounds come from their breathing, and the chains rattle every time Hans shifts. "But your guards have been surprisingly chatty."

"That will not continue," she states, cool and certain and just a breath short of snapping, and Hans smiles, sets both feet on the floor and leans forward conspiratorially.

"Of course, you wouldn't have this problem if you just... let me go," he says, soft and leading, and she's furious because that's still exactly what she wants to do, so of course she cannot. "You can call it banishment or whatever you like, tell everyone you've executed me privately, but you won't have to hear from me ever again," he adds, and the thrill of revulsion that shoots through her is everything she needs to know her mind hasn't changed.

"Or I could just kill you in a heartbeat," she says, calm and flat, and summons a snowstorm in the palm of her hand like one of them needs a reminder of what she can do, of who is in control.

"But you won't," Hans says lightly (even as he watches the ice swirling over her skin, draws his arms in a little tighter), before catching her eye and letting an easy grin slip across his mouth. It's a challenge.

"No," she admits, and snaps her hand shut. She looks him over one more time - notes the creeping flush of red at the edge of his manacles, and how his lip still hasn't healed - as she endlessly considers what to do, and he leans back and spreads his arms like he's putting himself on display. 

"Urgh," Elsa murmurs, both at him and herself, but there's the thought that's been curling around everything like smoke - no matter where she puts him, if he's near absolutely anyone he could talk to he'll find a way to charm his way out. Which, horribly, leaves her with just one choice.

She's going to have to keep him _close_.

"I will do what I can," she says instead, and she's out the door before Hans can do anything other than frown. 

There is an old dressing room connected to her bedchamber in the royal apartments, which was too small for her grandfather's collection of capes and so many years ago was relegated to more of a storage room, now full of winter cloaks and motheaten gloves. This is the room she orders to be converted into a cell; to be cleaned and emptied and fitted with a small, low bed and chains set into the walls (which - she doesn't plan on locking him into, but the option, the visual, is important). 

The door is removed entirely and replaced with something several times thicker, two huge bolts set into it and a slot at the base for things to be passed through, and a new lock with a key only ever made in ice, so only she can ever release him. She orders double shifts in the dungeons to make sure that this time, while the cell is being made ready, that _no one talks to him_.

As an afterthought, she adds a small pile of books to the new prison, thick tomes on the law and history of Arendelle that she had to study and memorise when she was still in single-figure age, in case he needs something to put him to sleep at night.

 

It's three days before the cell is ready, and a rain-soaked late summer morning when she finally goes back down to the dungeons again, keeping her hands clasped all the way as she considers every single thing that could possibly go wrong in transferring Hans to his new prison. There are a troupe of eight guards lining the hallway of the dungeons and another two to follow her into Hans's cell, one with the keys to the chains and the other with a new set of manacles, and her hands are ungloved - she takes a breath and hopes that, whatever he might have planned, she is ready for it. 

Hans sits on the stone bench, hunched-up and cold and glaring, snap-studying her and the guards in turn - it's been three days since anyone has said a word to him (she checked) and he looks, oddly, ravenous as he looks each of them over - before suddenly he leans back and smiles with a parody of warmth. He has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders that definitely wasn't there the last time she saw him, the dungeons cold and miserable even in the height of summer (and there it is - pity or loyalty or some kind of lingering feeling, a returned favour of a cloak, it doesn't matter; it just means that Hans isn't as alone here as she would like, as alone as she needs to feel in control of him. It's somewhat gratifying to know she's made the right choice in isolating him entirely.)

A gust of wind sends the rain hammering against the window, a shock of noise in the silence. 

"Queen Elsa," he says, inclining his head, and that smile is back. Elsa arches an eyebrow and stands, arms loosely crossed, by the opposite wall as the guards step forward to switch his restraints. She's studying the way the fabric on the collar of his jacket has been shredded before suddenly she gets a glimpse of his wrists; red and raw and scabbing over. Something stabs through her, an extra spark in the ever-burning loathing, and she bites her lip without thinking.

"I didn't expect you to be squeamish, Your Majesty," Hans says, dispassionately teasing and she twists her mouth to the side and turns her attention to the window, watching the fjord ripple and swell (because he's _wrong_ , but she doesn't want to contest it out loud with so many of her citizens surrounding them, or consider what that visceral flutter in her stomach is. Ice-cold flesh scares her. Blood doesn't.) 

He winces as the manacles are fixed and he is pulled to his feet, a split-second of honesty, and she runs her teeth across her bottom lip again before she can stop herself. She's so focused on watching Hans that she's unguarded against her own rapid thoughts - her eyes flash wide as the memory of how her hand slipped under the bedcovers suddenly unravels like pulling a ribbon and without thinking she takes two steps back, her shoulder hitting the wall and her shoe slipping against the floor with the barest sound.

It's almost nothing under the thick clanking metal as Hans is turned towards the door but still, she's just steadying herself when he twists around to look at her, eyes narrowed like he's heard the snap of the twig in the forest, the promise of something wounded.

"Carry on," she says, raising her chin and meeting his eye for a moment before dismissing him, and the guards either side of him march forward out of the cell. She follows automatically, pleased to note the guards falling into step around them, and she keeps her head held high and her face carefully blank as she quietly, intensely _panics_ \- because this was not part of the plan, she hasn't the faintest idea why she's reacting like this, even as her hands lock a little tight as Hans takes the first step of the stairs and audibly gasps, an old bruise stretching hot and vicious. 

Even in the dim, warm light of the torches he looks worse than ever and, perhaps, she wonders, that's the problem - he looks _awful_ , and she's _enjoying_ it. She is almost content in her hatred of him but this indulgence is bizarre and unexpected and she cannot let it continue, cannot let herself feel like the world has tipped off-balance every time she sees the visceral consequences of his suffering - and, maybe, there's the solution.

She watches as the guards almost carry him up the stairs and wonders, hope blooming cold and clean in her chest, maybe if he looks whole again she'll stop wanting to break him. 

When they reach the main castle she follows a few paces behind the procession, preferring to look as though she is just here to distantly observe. Instead, she keeps one eye on him, being half-dragged, half-supported along as the guards keep the quick pace she insisted on, as she summons servants along the way and orders a bath and clean clothes and healing balms and a barber. She forbids herself from explaining (because she is the _queen_ , and they are here to serve her, and she would rather let them assume it's compassion instead of whatever the selfish, twisting truth is) but still it seems all it takes is a glance towards Hans, rough with dirt and stubble and sleeplessness, to allay any doubts about why she's doing this, as each servant nods without question and hurries away.

The barber arrives the same time as the bath, shortly after the procession reaches the royal library, and Hans eyes both of them with equal and barely-concealed amusement. Elsa stands by the door, and idly wonders if he is resting one hand on the back of a chair like that because he needs the support. He hasn't been mistreated, just imprisoned for a scant few days, and before that it was just a short sea voyage in easy enough weather - and she almost smacks herself in the face when she realises he is trying to make himself look as pathetic and harmless as possible, as though that would make anyone forget what he has done. 

"You're letting one of your citizens hold a knife to my neck?" Hans says, mock-concerned as he watches the barber lay out his tools on the chess table. "Do you really think that's wise?" and Elsa, for a moment, considers it: letting Hans near a weapon.

"I don't think you would get anything out of killing him," Elsa says, catching Hans's eye, and ignores the way the barber looks rapidly between them, his face turning more horrified by the minute. The briefest smirk flits in the corner of Hans's mouth, before one of the guards steps forward with the key for his restraints and they both turn to Elsa, waiting.

"I can't get undressed with these still on," Hans point out, holding up his wrists and the linking chain, and, reluctantly, forcing herself to be rational, she nods at the guard, who unlocks the offered manacles and removes them before stepping back to stand by the wall. Hans makes a show of rolling his shoulders, spreading his arms as wide as possible, before he walks over to the bath that has been set up in front of the fire. There is a smattering of rain on the roof as Hans shrugs off his jacket and starts to work on the buttons of his waistcoat before he pauses, and turns to look at Elsa with a thin smile.

"You are, of course, welcome to stay and keep guard," he says, and Elsa presses her lips together. The Captain of the Guard, standing a few feet to her left, leans over.

"We will keep watch at all times, Your Majesty," he says, low and imploring, and she gives him a concise smile before setting her shoulders back and turning on her heel to leave. Hans, turned away and apparently ignoring them, is down to his shirt, and Elsa gets a brief glimpse of the bruises dotted across his back before she determinedly looks away.

She pauses halfway through the door, the doorknob cold under her palm. "If I hear a single note of trouble, I will freeze your bath water," she says over her shoulder, and doesn't wait for his comeback. 

For an hour she settles herself in the council chamber, taking a seat at the head of the table and pretends to look over trade agreements. The rain continues to ebb and gust, occasionally tapping at the glass, and two different servants come through to announce that all is progressing smoothly and the barber has finished before a third comes in with an armful of clothes. They smell freshly-washed, but must have been left behind by a visiting dignitary a very long time ago, because the light grey frock coat Elsa picks up looks positively _ancient_. 

"It's perfect," she announces, and hands it back with a smile. A short while later Kai comes to announce that he is ready, and Elsa takes a breath, shuffles her papers into a meaningless pile and goes to find out if this whole exercise has worked. 

Hans is standing in the middle of his new cell when she arrives, free of any restraints and ignoring the wall of guards standing outside the door as he inspects the outfit she picked out for him - it fits, surprisingly, well, and he looks clean and washed and entirely free of suffering. The only thing she's feeling is that familiar stirring of hatred, nothing more, and she exhales.

"There's a portrait of my great-grandfather wearing something like this," Hans says with a slight frown, brushing the sleeve with his fingertips, before he glances up and smiles in a way that, on anyone she didn't loathe, could be called charming. "Will I do?" he asks, spreading his arms wide, and he looks just like the man she met at her coronation.

"Yes," she says, and smiles, before she slams the cell door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [You by Carol Ann Duffy](http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.co.uk/2005/10/you-carol-ann-duffy.html).
> 
> The library (according to the screenplay) is the same room that Elsa practices for her coronation in and where Hans reveals his evil plan. The council chamber is the room where Hans announces Anna is dead.  
> Hans's new outfit looks something like [this](http://www.digitaltmuseum.no/things/drakt/NMK-D/OK-03675).


	3. there's a reason not to want this but I forgot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Vienna Teng - Recessional](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGKicxfFtsw).

In two weeks Elsa has mostly learnt how to bite her tongue as Hans talks through the cell door - he flatters and provokes and sometimes calls with a soft voice that melts all caramel and smoke through the door but makes her think of the ice sculpture of Anna, or the ships laying scattered on the bottom of the fjord, or the world shattering above and beneath her. Sometimes he reminds her that banishment is still an option, although he appreciates all the work Arendelle has put in to keep him comfortable. 

"If it's a straight choice," she suddenly replies one day, as mid-afternoon light streaks across her desk, painting her hands golden. "You should know I would rather see you dead than let you walk free."

There's a pause. "Thank you for the honesty, Your Majesty," Hans says, sounding almost apologetic, and Elsa lays her papers flat on the table, and rests her hands flat on top. She wonders where he is - lying on his bed as he calls to her, or maybe leaning against the door, ready to catch every sound she makes. "Perhaps, then," he continues, and she breathes out, steeling herself. "You would have dinner with me?"

She jolts like she's been struck, her chair scraping back half an inch. And perhaps she has spent too much time shut up in her chambers without good company, because she considers it, a bargain: she wants a break from him, the endless noise, in exchange for dealing with him face to face for an hour. "If you stay silent until tomorrow evening, I will let you," she says, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice, swallowing down the anxiety that grabs her throat and she creates frost to twist around her fingers, a promise of control.

There is silence for a long moment, and she wonders if this is Hans agreeing, until: "I look forward to it," Hans says, and does not speak for the rest of the day.

The silence is strange, and rare - despite spending more time in her chambers everyday, the need to oversee every mealtime and possible moment of weakness in their security meaning her private dining table quickly became her desk, there is, unfortunately, always Hans. She's barely seen Anna for a week and her ribs lock tight every time his voice slips under the door - the fact that he's locked away and powerless becomes something like a chant in the back of her mind, drowning him out. 

(At least, the almost-isolation is a warped kind of welcome after weeks of presiding over the throne room and council chamber, all noise and expectation and demands; she was born to do this, _trained_ for it, but the years she spent in enforced loneliness only delayed the fact that spending too much time around too many people drains her to the point of exhaustion.) 

In truth, this sudden silence after bracing herself against him for so long just sets her on edge, off-balance, tapping her fingers against the desk as her eyes skim endlessly over the same sentence because now she's waiting for something she doesn't know the shape of. Hans doesn't say a thing even as the last meal of the day is passed through the slot at the bottom of the door, none of the usual gracious thanks that are always a touch too polite to be sincere, and she goes to bed with every inch of her back all coiled tension and aching for release.

Sleep comes with a fight and she wakes sharply to find herself staring up at the darkness, but there is only cold and dead air and a pulsing knot of panic in her chest. Quick shallow breaths until her thoughts catch up to consciousness and she desperately searches for a reason - it's snowing, in the first breath, and then _Hans_ , in the next, and their bargain, and surely he will keep it because she has something he wants - and that's when the horror finally clicks into place, her pulse loud and thudding in her ears, her bedsheets crisp with frost around her fingers because she has _no idea what he's after_. 

Snowflakes dust her eyelashes before dissolving and he cannot possibly expect to escape, and he must realise by now that everything he says is meaningless to her, and she rolls over and buries her face in her pillow because beyond that, she's at a loss. She hates him utterly, she thinks, like a mantra, and at least her heartbeat starts to level out. 

Elsa flips the pillow to the other side, smooths her hands across her bedsheets until they're soft again and her tension melts out with the frost so she just lies there, listening, gently straining her focus towards Hans as though he might be murmuring his plans in his sleep. Everything is silence, that odd hour of the night when everything slips surreal and it seems possible the darkness will never end, has swallowed her whole, and the town beyond her window so still it could be a dream. 

In the greyscale slope of her room her mind softly floats from what Hans wants to what she could do about it; the image of lips parted, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, his body taut with pain beneath her, every angle honest and open - it's oddly calming in this timeless, forgotten space, and it lingers behind her eyelids, and then she's asleep.

When morning finally comes, the dawn rolling in with thick clouds from the sea, Elsa blinks awake and finds a new determination in the cool light - whatever his plan is, she can handle it. The day is spent in the blissful quiet of her chambers, working through correspondence with their most important trade partners first, then a letter from a distant cousin in the east, before getting stuck into a long and complicated treaty. 

It's so dense that she doesn't register the raw edge of nerves that's creeping into her spine, her legs crossed and her dangling foot tapping a quick, endless beat against the floor, until she glances up and the paper crumples under her fingers as the sun dips past the top of the mountains. She's _angry_ , she realises, hot and tense and ready for a fight, and she shoves the treaty under a thick book to flatten it out.

Her plan is simple: she gave her ladies-in-waiting the night off, and told Kai she wanted to eat alone in her chambers tonight, neither unusual. Her supper comes first and she knocks her papers into tidy piles, clearing just enough space for a covered plate, and she picks up a book and reads until Hans's tray arrives. "I can do that," she says, and smiles patiently as the maid places the tray on top of a precarious piles of books before bowing and leaves, and then it's just her in the silence of her chamber, the sun setting red in the distance.

Elsa lights the lamps before scooping up all her work and setting it on a chair near the window, and then she conjures the key in her hand and, taking a breath, unlocks the door.

Hans stands at parade rest in the center of his cell, looking more put-together than she expected in just the waistcoat and shirt (the frock coat is neatly laid over the books in the corner, the cravat nowhere to be seen), his boots shining, and his facial hair sharply unchanged - she allows a small shaving kit into his cell every morning, and ensures it is fetched at midday, because the whole point of this is to keep him as the enemy she knows. 

He gives the barest of smiles before moving into a short, formal bow, and she can't tell if it is mocking or not. 

"Elsa. It is most wonderful to see you," Hans says, an edge to his voice like honesty, and Elsa just purses her lips, her heart beating fast with hatred as she steps to the side and gestures him in. 

She leaves the cell door open, like a reminder for both of them of how temporary this is going to be, and finds Hans already waiting with her hands wrapping around the back of her chair like he expects to help her sit. 

"May I?" he asks. His hands aren't gloved, his fingers long and pale, and the frill of his cuffs hide his wrists entirely.

"No," she says, and folds her hands in front of her until he nods in acceptance, a smile haunting the corner of his mouth, and goes to stand at the other end of the table. The court formalities stand between them like a screen, and she latches onto their familiarity as she forces herself to calm down and get on with this - distantly, she wonders why Hans holds onto them with such tenacity, and her measured steps ring on the floorboards as she tucks that away for consideration. Hans waits for her to sit before he settles himself in the opposite chair, his back to the door, with neat quickness.

Elsa lays her napkin in her lap with a sharp flick of her wrist, picks up her cutlery and then blankly stares at her food as she registers just how anti-climactic this feels; a mere cloudy day when she had been preparing for a storm. Hans is already eating like that's all he came here to do and he catches her looking, fork halfway to his mouth, and sets it down.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, there's a flicker of a look that might be delight, bright and sharp in the flash of teeth even as his tone pitches something soft and concerned.

"Fine. I admit, I can't figure out what you gain from this," she says, the lie in the lazy shrug she gives, smoothing her thumb along her knife handle with a foreign casualness as her pulse jumps - she hasn't seen his face in two weeks, and she has the most unbecoming desire to rake her nails across it.

"The pleasure of your company, of course," he replies without hesitation, inclining his head respectfully, and she reads nothing but insincerity in every angle of his bones. There are no revelations lingering behind his tongue and she can't bring herself to make conservation, and so she starts cutting her lamb into neat, small squares as her hunger stays a distant thing, drowned out by the stubborn waves in her stomach.

"And you?" Hans says after a moment, and she spares him a glance. "What do you expect to gain from keeping me so close?"

"The safety of my people, of course," she says, slicing through a potato, carefully dividing her food into fractals.

"Just that?" he says, amused and considering. "Surely there was a tower somewhere you could have locked me away in. I didn't realise you kept such a personal interest in your prisoners."

"The only thing I would trust to guard you without prejudice would be a dragon. And we don't have any of those," she throws out lightly before she finally takes a bite, and Hans laughs loose and easy (she follows her thoughts up the mountain, finding dragons and beasts and more prisons made of ice).

"I'm flattered by your belief in my abilities," Hans says, still gently laughing, and there's something guardless in the way he leans back, settling comfortably into the conversation, that makes her want freeze his hands to the table, throw a fork at him, _something_ to remind him that they are not _friends_.

"I've been inquiring about you," she admits, leaves it dangling, and feels Hans's eyes on her as she turns back to her food.

"Oh?" he says, tonelessly leading, and Elsa allows the sparest quirk of her lips, acknowledgement and dismissal, before her appetite suddenly emerges with a dull ache. That is, she decides, enough conversation for one evening, and easily rebuffs his inquires into whether she's feeling alright, and if she'd like to discuss something else, until he asks if she's made it snow anywhere recently and her head snaps up, and he's watching her. 

Elsa doesn't answer, just gives him a look as though that is the most ridiculous question she's ever heard (it must just be a shot in the dark, him aiming wildly for anything that might provoke her into talking), and privately, desperately reassures herself that her powers never spread beyond the doors of her chamber.

Still, after that, Hans falls oddly silent, and every time she glances over at him he is just eating, neat and quiet and barely looking at her, and every time their eyes meet he's the only one to smile and the first to look away. The moment his plate is clear, Elsa sets down her fork and settles back in her chair, raising one eyebrow when Hans makes a show of dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. There's a flutter in her stomach, but she refuses to consider it.

"We're done," she says, and picks her napkin up off her lap, sliding her legs to the side as she tenses, ready to stand up and lock him back up and put this strangely dull evening behind her.

"Wait!" Hans calls, half-rising as she does, and that's enough to make Elsa pause - the burst of desperation sending a thrill through her as she hesitates, studying him, and in the end it's curiosity that makes her sit back down. 

He seems almost surprised, but he recovers quickly and steps to the side of the table, closing the distance between them until he stands by the side of her chair and her shoulders are a line of tension, and she moves her hands to her lap with deliberate grace, in case he has forgotten that just because she is without a weapon it doesn't mean she is unarmed. 

His gaze follows her fingers before rising to meet hers. "Queen Elsa," he says, holding his forearm straight across his chest before he drops to one knee and bows his head, and Elsa has to dig her nails into her palm to stop herself from flinching - his head is mere inches from her legs and there's something about having him on his knees in front of her, awaiting her command, that makes her breath catch. Her knuckles click as she twists her hands around each other - she wants _something_ , the need of it knotting tight in her lungs, but she doesn't know the words.

"I'd like to formally apologise -" he starts, and Elsa exhales sharply, loosening with relief because this is normal, she can deal with this, and Hans pauses and looks up when she sighs in familiar, dismissive boredom, her hands coming up to clutch lightly at her elbows.

"Oh," he says, and licks his lips, before he lets his shoulders drop and leans back a little, staying crouched down but studying her as his mouth slips predatory. "I guess you've heard that one already."

"And now we're done," Elsa says, because if she doesn't move soon she's going to do something stupid like slam her knee into his face, anything to make that smirk stop, and then Hans wraps his hand around the back of her calf and tips forward so both knees are on the floor, his feet tucked up underneath him, and Elsa finally realises what the point of this evening was. She isn't, she distantly notes, stopping him, even as the specific urge to snap his head back and break his jaw starts to purr in her chest.

"Or, you could allow me to make amends," he says, holding her gaze through his eyelashes and there is something almost laughably sweet in the way his fingertips trace patterns across her skin, teasingly sensitive, but it's the pulsing ache between her legs that stops her from moving when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to her thigh. 

"Oh," she says, faintly, because that's new. The burn of his slight stubble sparks like embers as Hans trails his mouth up her leg and she grabs the back of his head, his hair surprisingly silky under her palm, and tugs sharply up even as his shoulders nudge her legs apart.

The breathless, strangled noise he gives is enough to make her toes curl, as she pulls his mouth away from her skin and forces him to look up at her. " _Please_ ," he says, artfully wrecked, and the fact that he's asking for it almost enough to make her stop, make her consider what he really gets out of this, but his eyes are dark and his jaw a little slack and she _wants_ , a wet, slick curiosity that tightens with her fingers as she just (lets go) drags his face between her legs and he goes so eagerly his hair almost slips through her hand.

Her dress slides up and out of the way so easily and then there's hot air and Hans's mouth crushed against her core, his tongue sliding rough and wet along her folds before he somehow finds that perfect spot above the bone and sucks; she gasps mostly in surprise, because he seems to know more about what she wants than she does, and grabs onto the edge of the table for support. It feels she's being pulled apart from her centre, all sweet intense pressure and fireworks in her blood as it pulses beneath his tongue, as she follows the urge to roll her hips into it. Without thinking she digs her nails into the back of his neck, holding him still as she tips herself against his mouth, and he keens shocked and raw like it's been ripped out of him.

He just pants wetly against her skin - and for a horrified second Elsa thinks he's going to stop, and it's something like a revelation when she decides she won't let him - before he ripostes with a rough suck against her pressure point and her gasps sound like thin ice cracking; small and splintered and primal. Her heart is pounding like she's terrified but with a thrill she realises she's not, she's _loving_ this, all power and control in her fingers as she steers Hans a little to the side and moans with delight when the pressure sparks hot and gorgeous.

Hans slows down, pulls back a fraction, and there's a tease of teeth against her flushed, swollen skin. The lamps set everything bright and open as night creeps outside the window and she laughs, breathless and shredded like a groan, when she realises he is trying to set the pace, as though he's the one in charge. With fractured ease she peels her hand off the table and slips it underneath his collar, finding muscles warm and tensed beneath her fingertips, and then rakes her nails across the bare skin as Hans gasps rough and breathless again and arches away from her core, pushing his back into her claws. His ragged breath flushes damp against her thighs.

Suddenly, she isn't interested in being kind - she grabs the long hair at the top of his head like reins and pulls him back, canting her hips so she just rides his face until he catches up, not caring if she catches on teeth or tongue or his chin. She feels, wildly, unleashed, happily giving into the need to see him suffer and hardly caring if he can breathe as that wet ache twists tighter and hotter with every slide of his lips and stuttered gasp.

His left hand is still wrapped around her calf, just holding it, and when she glances down to see him bury his face between her legs, his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, she realises his other hand is palming the crotch of his breeches. A bolt of angry heat shoots through her even as it takes a moment before she realises what he's doing, and then her only thought is _don't you dare_. 

"Keep your hands on me," Elsa gasps, all molten and commanding despite not really knowing what she's doing, and it's a delicious surprise when he obeys with a noise like a choked plea, wraps both hands around the top of her knees and tips further forward so her grip slackens and his nose is a constant pressure just above her core. 

She drags her nails across his skull, ending up at the top of his neck and her palm pressing him close as she grinds against the perfect heat of his mouth, something sparkling and hot coiling in the base of her stomach until every muscle snaps solid before melting utterly, her chest shuddering with a gasp of surprise and she comes like a glacier splitting, huge and sudden and unstoppable, and Hans's tongue anchors her through it. 

Her spine curves forward like a loosened bow, slumped forward and clinging onto the back of the chair just to keep herself from slipping off entirely, and distantly she unlatches her fingernails from his back, pulling them out one by one as Hans waits between her legs. His cheek slips lightly against her thigh, his breath just as harsh and heavy as hers, and when her hand is free of his shirt he falls back to sit on his heels, and blinks twice before looking up at her. He's flushed and dishevelled with his mouth glistening wetly, eyes glazed and nearly black, and so close she could kiss him if the thought didn't turn her stomach.

Elsa licks her lips before speaking. Hans watches the flick of her tongue. "We're done," she insists, her voice rough and spent, and he just looks at her for a moment, his hands resting on his thighs, before he ducks his head in nothing like a bow and gets to his feet with a slight stagger, his legs cramped and bloodless from kneeling for so long. He heads straight for his cell. 

There's a thought lingering at the back of her mind, a distant appreciation of how obedient he can be, but mostly she concentrates on shutting the door behind him without having to move. A shot of ice slams it shut and seals it into the frame in one go and then she shifts to throw her weight against the back of her chair, finding herself staring at the ceiling as she searches for the panic and instead finds a bone-deep satisfaction, loose and languid and utterly strange. 

She turns her head slightly when there's the thud of something hitting the other side of the cell door, and then muffled silence (she imagines him sliding down the door, legs splaying to the side as he hits the ground), and then a sound she's never heard before but is still, somehow, the unmistakable noise of skin sliding furiously against skin. She groans, the satisfaction slipping into muted horror, and buries her face in her arms.


	4. I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine

"People are saying he's your sex slave," Anna suddenly announces over tea in the castle gardens, and Elsa splutters into her cup. The late morning sun is bright above them, and it's been four days since she had dinner with Hans. "Right?" Anna says, her grin spreading wide and warm as Elsa recovers. "I mean, we figured there's a reason you've been shut away all this time, we just didn't know why, and I thought maybe you were shutting me out again but obviously not, and, you know, there's rumours, about you and Hans. Hilarious rumours. Not that anyone's saying any of it to my face, of course, but I've got pretty good at sneaking around this castle." 

"I'm just," Elsa starts, and desperately casts about for something to say. "Shocked that you know what... that kind of thing is," she lies, and thanks years of practice for how her cup doesn't rattle in its saucer as she sets it down.

"Excuse me, Your Highness, I am _worldly_. I've had _adventures_ ," Anna proclaims, and Elsa breathes out, and grins fondly at her. Anna beams back, and then bites her lip and shuffles slightly closer on her seat, already close around the little circular table set on the grass.

"I'm so glad you're not spending all your time in your room again," she says, and covers Elsa's bare hand with her own. Elsa doesn't pull away, but she looks at their hands for a second before she flips her palm and links their fingers.

"It's wonderful to be out of there," Elsa says, truthfully: because she's barely set foot in her own chambers for four days. The morning after she had tried to carry on as normal, sat in the armchair by the fireplace as a servant pulled open the slot at the bottom of the door and slipped the breakfast tray through, but then Hans called out to ask if she had slept well and she had panicked, suddenly remembered somewhere she had to be, and fled. 

For three days she's done nothing but work, throwing herself into the thick of Arendelle's affairs to keep herself away, keep her mind occupied, and it hasn't helped _at all_. Mostly, she's learnt how skilled she is at creeping through her chambers in the deep shadows before dawn, and how easy it is to let the Guard Captain take the responsibility of watching everything a prisoner needs be passed through a locked door.

She does, at least, insist that they tell her anything that happens, because hearing about him second-hand is vastly preferable to hearing his voice. Apparently he keeps inquiring after her, sounding nothing but concerned, and she has to wait until she's alone before she can bury her face in her hands. 

(In her sleep she finds herself across her chamber, Hans between her thighs, and she wakes up just to punch her pillow.)

She hasn't seen her chambers in the sunlight for days but she keeps telling herself she's fine, that she doesn't care what Hans might say but avoiding being within shouting distance of him anyway. She's not sure if her cheeks are flushing or if she's in danger of making the room snow as that evening keeps jumping up in the unexpected skipping of her thoughts, trying desperately to focus on _anything_ but the way friction burn rasps on her thighs every time she crosses her legs.

Even as she furiously does not think about how pleasurable giving in was (and that's the worst part, possibly: not that she let it happen to satisfy her curiosity but that it _didn't_ , and she wants _more_ ) she hasn't the faintest know what to do now - mostly taking it day by day and hoping that, somehow, she can keep this up forever. 

The only thing she is certain of is that she can't possibly let it happen again.

This morning was Anna's idea, to finally drag her away from the council chambers to spend some proper time together, and it's the perfect reminder than the rest of the world exists, that Hans is just a minor inconvenience. She wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the day just here, just her and her sister.

Elsa takes a breath, her chest impossibly light, and strokes the pad of her thumb across Anna's knuckle. "To be with you," she adds, and Anna's smile outshines the sun.

"Queen Elsa," Kai says, suddenly by her side, and they both jump. "Apologies, Your Majesty, but there is... an incident in the castle, and your guidance would be appreciated," he says, with odd emphasis, and his eyes dart to Anna before settling on Elsa.

"Of course," Elsa says, her stomach knotting and it's Hans, it must be - she untangles her hand from Anna's and stands up, smoothing down her dress as she pretends that her heart isn't suddenly racing. 

"You promised me we'd have the whole morning together before you had to work," Anna says, standing up and curling her hand around Elsa's elbow. "What's going on?"

"It's just gone noon," Kai points out, helpfully, as Elsa shifts her weight from one foot to the other and presses into the reassuring warmth of Anna beside her, almost wishing she could tell Anna what she did just so she would understand why she jumps at the first sign of trouble. With a glance at Elsa, Kai explains: "There's something going on in Prince Hans's cell," and Elsa frowns, feels the knots reach up to grab at her throat.

"That's it?" Anna says, but lets her hand slip away as Elsa sets her shoulders back and steps reluctantly to the side, linking her fingers in front of her in a false show of calm control.

"I'll see you at dinner," she promises, and Anna flashes her a grin that quickly slips before Elsa turns and strides off through the rose arches, the air dropping a little cooler in the shade.

"Explain from the start," Elsa says, trying to keep her voice low and calm as Kai trots to keep up.

"There are strange noises coming from inside his room," Kai says, and Elsa glances at him. "He's talking and there might be someone responding. We thought you should know." She frowns despite the churning in her stomach because, wait, _what_? 

"You think someone got in?" she says as they pass through the doors into the castle hallway.

"Well, yes. We don't know how, but yes," Kai says.

"Oh," Elsa says, and pauses, one foot on the first step of the staircase. Panic tugs deep under her sternum, spreading out along her ribs, and her fingers lock tight in the shift of her dress as she picks it up and carries on walking. 

"Your Majesty?" Kai says, but she shakes her head and fixes her chin up, setting her face hard and only allowing her steps to knock a little quick as scenarios run like avalanches through her mind.

Her chest twists deeper with every one because if someone got in then he could get _out_ ; if he's just found a way to talk to someone, some magic that should only exist in fairytales (but God, look at her life, she doesn't know why she should be surprised by that) then he's not alone and that's just as terrifying; and if he's told someone what she let him do - ice bursts under her feet for two steps before she gets it under control, reaching the top of the stairs as she digs her nails into her palms and stalks down the corridor.

 _Look what happens when I leave him alone_. She flings open the doors to her chamber, and then recoils as she finds people inside, just one servant and three guards but it's far more than she expected.

"Everybody out," she says automatically, because _what_ , and she's trying so hard to keep herself calm but the set of her face must be fierce because no one hesitates once they see her, the room clearing quick.

"Your Majesty, the guards-" Kai starts, hovering in the doorway, but Elsa waves him off. 

"Whatever it is, I'll handle it," she says, and when Kai still doesn't move she adds, "Make sure Anna is okay." He nods, and leaves.

She locks her bedchamber door behind her, just in case, and plucks the key to the cell out of thin air. There's silence as she approaches the door and for a moment she wonders what his play is, what he was doing to make everyone so worried when there's suddenly a noise, high and strange and gasping, and she flattens her palm against the door and yanks it open to find - 

Hans, alone and lying on his bed (thank goodness, is her first thought), but then she realises what he's doing; his hand wrapped around his cock and he arches his back, pushing his hips into it as he turns his head towards her, his bottom lip unfurling from under his teeth, and he grins all warm and sleepy-eyed.

"Elsa," he says, and it sounds more like a moan. "It's so good to see you."

It's like she's been plunged into a hot spring, burning heat rushing from the base of her chest to her fingertips, spreading out to her toes and up her neck and across her face, even in her lips and her eyelids and her hairline all suddenly prickling as she can do nothing but stare, eyes wide and open-mouthed.

She has no idea what to do. Hans bites his lip again and smooths his thumb over the head, never taking his eyes off hers, and when she finally manages to look away from the scruff of dark red hair around the base of his prick the shock of eye contact startles her into moving. 

"No," she says, and slams the door. The "Wait-!" that rolls under it is half-hearted and breathless, more like a final barb than a plea, and she strides across her chamber so she can convince herself her knees are not feeling weak.

The guards are still outside, waiting. "He's fine," she says, and hates how winded her voice is. She clenches her jaw as she sweeps past, her head held high in the hope that no one will notice how flustered she looks, and keeps on walking until she can find somewhere to _breathe_.

There's a swell of something like anger in her stomach that's becoming oddly familiar, her fingers clenched tight and her cheeks flushed, and in case she needed more proof that she shouldn't have left his care to anyone else - that was it. She was such a fool to think she could get away with ignoring him entirely.

The ballroom is blissfully dark and empty, the shutters closed against the summer heat, and the door closes behind her with a soft click as it takes her weight, and then she slips down into a puddle of skirts. The sudden warmth has drawn back to coalesce between her thighs and that's it, that's the whole problem right there because now she can't see him without _wanting_ , and he's not going to let her forget it.

(The idea of banishing him to the ice palace looms, so sweet and promising that for a moment she almost wants to believe he could be kept there without problem, like he wouldn't find a way out -)

There's an epiphany lingering under her fingernails, a solution to all of this, potentially, but considering it shoots such a spike of heat through her that she thinks she should just dismiss it immediately, because giving Hans what he wants could never be a good idea. 

Except, she thinks, and draws ice between her fingers as she lets herself actually _think_ about what happened for the first time in days, the embarrassment and anger and heat all rising up but she holds it, embraces it, and lets herself be _honest_. The moment of selfishness she allowed herself - when her hand was fisted in his hair, when he was flushed and tense and between her thighs, so near she could feel every breath against her skin - was the only moment she felt utterly confident in her ability to control him.

Keeping him at a distance clearly isn't working. Maybe she needs to try keeping him so close he can't open his mouth without her hand tightening around his throat.

 

 

The dawn light spills prettily across the cell wall, and Hans is still lying in bed when Elsa unlocks the door and takes a single step inside. He shifts suddenly upright, bare feet flexing against the cold floor, and she's quietly delighted by the wary way he looks her over, searching for new chains or manacles or ice - she actually managed to surprise him. 

"Is this the part where you punish me?" he says, sleep-rough and cautious, and turns his face away for a moment as he stifles a yawn. The thin blanket is bunched up against the wall and he's shirtless, freckles dusted across his shoulders.

"No," she says, simply, and steps out of sight, back into her bedchamber. "Get up," she calls, and it's only a few seconds before Hans appears in the doorway, breeches slightly loose and still bare-chested - he looks steady on his feet but still he rests a hand against the doorframe as he considers the scene, the mirror and bowl and shaving brush and the same razor as always laid out on the table, by the chair with its back to the door, before he looks at her. 

His gaze lingers on her bare arms; her dress for the day is capped at the sleeves and all glittering ice across the bodice with skirts that move like water, and faintly she wonders what he sees when he looks at her.

"You don't trust me to shave alone?" he says, amused, taking two steps into the room as Elsa takes three and smooths out her skirts, settling neatly into a chair by the fireplace. She picks up the thick book perched on the arm because she doesn't quite trust herself not to stare, not to immediately grab him by the scruff of his neck and see how obedient he can be. She needs to take this slow.

"No," she says, and glances at him once before pulling at the ribbon holding her place in the pages. Her chair is at the same angle as his, both turned towards the window, and she catches the sweep of him sitting down out of the corner of her eye. "I'm sure you can imagine what I'll do if you try anything."

There's a warm huff of laughter, and Elsa shifts, all poise as she opens her book and Hans picks up the shaving brush, and - she can do this. She can pretend that this is normal and that she's relaxed, that being in the same room as him doesn't make her want to snap his arm behind his back and pin him to the table. Elsa glances at him again and Hans meets her eye with a quick flash of a grin before she looks away, clenches her jaw as she stares down at her book and finds herself reading the same sentence over and over.

_Ugh._

This _is_ what's going to be normal from now on, controlling every minute of his day. Smothering him instead of cornering him so he can't flinch without her nails digging in to his skin - except, she's still feeling out the edges of how this is going to work, and that's not really working at all. The problem is in every angle of her body, forcing relaxation into her shoulder blades and pretending she's calm and cold and in control when she can't even look at him without feeling like he's caught her doing something wrong.

She stares blankly at the page, her fingers loose against the binding as her attention is entirely elsewhere, listening to the soft swish-scrape of the lather brush against his jaw. 

The thing is, she wants to watch him. Wants to rake her eyes across his chest and imagine it's her nails instead. Wants him to know that she's not so easily flustered (and hope that maybe if she can convince him, she can convince herself), and she licks her lips as she realises there's one easy, obvious way to show it.

With a roll of her shoulders she snaps her book shut and sets back on the arm of her chair. She turns her head towards Hans and he's just putting down the lather brush, cheeks smeared with thick soap, and when he catches her looking he quirks his mouth in recognition, a second of triumph, before he turns back to the mirror. There's a clink of the blade against the table as he picks up the razor. 

_You can do this_ , she tells herself, and unfolds, crosses over to the chair opposite him and pulls it back from the table half a foot before she sits down, and lets herself look at him. 

Hans holds the razor at the join and tilts his jaw like he's looking for the best place to start. The mirror, small and circular and held up by a small silver stand, the only barrier between them, and his eyes keep slipping past it and catching hers. 

Despite the jolt of her heart every time their eyes meet (hatred, as ever, burns through her skin) it's oddly freeing to observe him so openly, as she loosely crosses her legs and settles back in her chair, repose suddenly coming easy as Hans twists his mouth to the side and frowns. He catches her gaze one more time before he sets the blade down and picks up the lather brush to swirl it against his cheeks, and when he picks up the razor again he doesn't look at her, just sets his jaw and focuses entirely on the mirror. 

She links her fingers, holds her mouth small and still, and watches; the trail of his razor as he stretches his cheek and slowly drags it down; the careful way he smooths the blade over the corner of his jaw, the blunt curve of it nudging his ear; the press of his mouth as he does his top lip by sections; the sharp scrape and pale underside his jaw as he draws it from chin to throat, and then baring his neck as he drags it up the other way; she lets her gaze linger in the dip of his collarbone and then on to the careful, meticulous way he neatens the edges of his sideburns; and then he rinses, and applies more soap, and does it again.

Hans takes his time as he finishes, dabs off the last of a lather with a wet hand and then presses his face into a towel, and when he looks up it's straight at Elsa, catching her eye across the table. She's the first to quirk her mouth into a smile, and holds it, hiding her delight when Hans blinks once in surprise - but he recovers in the time it takes to mirror it and the fleeting crease between his brows smooths out to something a little more considering, watchful.

There's an urge tingling under her fingertips as Hans picks up the razor again to wipe it against the towel, buffing the blade until it shines. She rationalised to herself that this morning was about figuring out the shape of things, establishing the boundaries of what she can command with just herself, but she _wants_ \- and what better way is there to find something out than to try it? 

Hans raises en eyebrow as she stands up and walks over, leans back in his chair so he can hold her gaze as she stands just by the side of it and plucks the razor from his hand. Their fingers brush, but she doesn't let it bother her.

"You missed a bit," she says, and slips a hand through the hair just above his temples, almost a suggestion as she holds the blade against his neck. There's a stutter in the rise of his chin and a pulse in the hollow of his throat but he doesn't flinch, just tilts his jaw up so the skin stretches taut and a fraction away from the edge.

It's fascinating, the way he stares up at her, an impression of wonder lingering behind the caution of his wide eyes as he doesn't fight, doesn't talk, just waits for her to move. All trust because she might not be a killer but she could still _hurt_ him, and she's surprised him twice already. The fingers in his hair tighten by a degree as she lets the blade touch featherlight against his neck, scrapes up half an inch with a quick flick of her wrist and then she pulls it away and snaps the blade back to the handle as Hans finally swallows.

"Perfect," she says, as there's a quick two-beat knock against the door, and allows herself a flicker of a smile as Hans touches his long fingers to his collarbone, traces them up his neck and finds nothing but unharmed skin.

The razor clicks down in the middle of the table, out of reach, and Elsa loosely folds her arms as Hans runs his fingers together, and looks up at her. "What's next? Breakfast together?" he says, polite in his wariness, but even she can tell the lightness of the words is forced, and the overly-earnest way he's watching her still turns her stomach.

"You go back to your cell," Elsa says, and strides over to the door of her bedchamber. It springs open under her hand, and she picks up the small silver tray laid neatly in front of the doorway.

"That wasn't locked?" Hans says, and there's definite bemusement in the lilt of his voice, eyes flicking to the open hallway once before settling on her. Her mouth slips wicked and pleased and she ducks her head for a moment to hide it.

"Of course not," Elsa says, shutting the door behind her with a dainty kick, and Hans rises up as she crosses the room, stopping a foot away. He steps forward without hesitation, all gentlemanly manners as he takes the tray and balances it on one hand. There's a twitch in his lips, a consideration of something as Elsa clasps her hands neatly in front of her and raises her chin to look straight at him, waiting for him to move.

"Thank you for this morning, Elsa," Hans says, sounding more like himself, superior and smug and amused, and she frowns.

"You may go now," she says. He's standing far too close for her liking, not when he's shirtless and when she still hasn't figured out the exact shape of how this is going to work - she holds his gaze and waits, refusing to be the first to retreat, until he smiles and steps away and takes the long way around the table before he disappears into his cell. There are four short, red lines on his back, just below the base of his neck.

For lack of another surface he sets the silver tray down on his bed, and then his mouth shifts pleased and surprised when he turns and there's Elsa, framed in the doorway with her arms crossed. 

"You're not bored of me yet?" he says, and tilts his head so he's looking up at her through his eyelashes, mouth soft and self-depreciating. He looks _well_ , she belatedly realises - wrists healed and bruises gone, and even the shadows under his eyes have faded. Perhaps she's treating him too kindly.

"I'm going to be out of my chambers all day, so you're going to be in here," she insists, ignoring him, and slips her hand down her arm so she can link her fingers together. Hans ducks his head so she can't see his eyes, but she can see the flick of his tongue as he licks his lips.

"But-," she starts, just so he looks up, just so she knows she's got his full attention, and she still kind of hates the way hope flashes in his eyes. She wants to grind it under her toes. "If you're silent all day, I'll let you have dinner with me."

The widening fraction of his eyes is all she needs to know he understood, and even as he opens his mouth to agree Elsa shuts the door in his face.

"If I have to say the word yes out loud, does that negate our agreement?" Hans calls, like somehow he didn't quite get the message. Like he's testing her, and she knows how telling it could be if she lets him get away with too much, because the point of this is to make it seem as though it's his choice, like she's dangling herself like a reward. 

As though it isn't something he could hold over her. 

Still. "Silence starting now," Elsa calls back, and there's nothing but quiet; even the sounds of the castle being readied for the day are a distant, muffled thing.

She bites her lip, and it can't hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [You by Carol Ann Duffy](http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.co.uk/2005/10/you-carol-ann-duffy.html) (again).  
> Elsa's dress inspired by [this gorgeous creation](https://31.media.tumblr.com/0428b1cecdb829763e64acd3771b8b5e/tumblr_n39gtjmgwU1qjl0jdo1_400.jpg).
> 
> That's it for new chapters today - updates will be at least every two weeks (because I write so slowly D: ) but hopefully sooner! If you've read this far then ilu, and if you've followed this over from the kink meme then ilu even more <333


	5. It is so quite new a thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [i like my body when it is with your by ee cummings](http://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/05/27/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your-by-e-e-cummings/).

Her day passes in council chamber meetings and audiences in the throne room, diplomats and ambassadors and people who endlessly want things from her, and the carefully attentive face Elsa holds starts to crack before she's even halfway through the afternoon. She barely has time to eat between scheduled meetings and she doesn't see Anna at all - and the thing is, she can't even complain because she planned this, planned her day to be busy and productive and draining, because her evening is going to be about _release_.

(It's possible she's too good at knowing how to knead herself into fury; spending an hour at the docks overseeing the shipments being unloaded, a long council meeting to discuss trade routes, constantly surrounded by people - ice keeps bursting under her toes, and the day can't move fast enough.)

The afternoon has long since slipped into soft evening light by the time she's shutting the doors of her bedchamber behind her, and she just leans against them for a moment, dissolving in the empty silence. 

On any other day she would let herself melt into it, curl up on her bed and read a book until she was no longer aware of her own body - but today her blood thrums with the need to do _something_ , ice cracking threads under her palms, and Elsa has to close her eyes and take a breath to draw it back in. 

The table is already set for her supper, the smell of pastry and candlewax and woodsmoke sweet and warm in the air. She clenches and releases her fists, holds herself steady for the time it takes to find her feet, cross the room and conjure the key to Hans's cell in her hand before she pulls the door open. The dinner tray for him is just inside, untouched.

"Elsa," Hans says, getting up from his seat on his bed, and she doesn't catch what his fleeting expression was. He folds his hands behind his back and smiles, wide and clear. Everything is properly buttoned and tightened, neater than when she last saw him, and the pale cream cravat is looped neatly under the collar of his shirt. Something like a shiver runs through her, a promise of dishevelment.

"Hans," she copies, and it's mocking enough that he raises an eyebrow. Elsa clears her throat and steps back, because if she doesn't hold it together for at least another minute she might actually break something.

"Bring your dinner," she calls over her shoulder and pauses until he's back in her sight, kneeling down as he picks up the plate, before she turns to her chamber. Fingernails dig into her palms as her eyes fall on the dining table. 

She hesitates; unsure whether to go to her seat and risk falling into politeness, because she wants with vicious, rolling need she's never let herself indulge before but years of courtly manners are ingrained like muscle memory. She doesn't have the patience to sit, tense and waiting, through dinner - not when this is about her, and what she needs. The bed, then. A deliberate move. 

The tap of Hans's boots scuffle against the stone for a moment as she turns sharply and perches on the side of her mattress, arms tucking in close and her fingers splaying out either side of her as she anchors herself on the covers, a statue of tension as her shoulders quiver. The jut of her chin is all challenge when she looks up and there's Hans in the middle of the room, brows furrowed, studying her for a beat, before he taps his heels together and strides away to place the tray on the table. 

Elsa crosses her legs without thinking, and then uncrosses them, and maybe she hasn't the faintest idea how to start this but the thrumming anger in her skin rolls like a storm, and so she just waits, lets the storm build; until Hans turns back to her, takes half a step and then rocks back on his heel, like he's unsure of where to go.

Okay. She can do this. Take a breath, take control.

"Come here," she says, covers bunching under the curl of her fingers as Hans flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, and he does. There's something stiff in the way he's walking, like he's holding himself back, holding himself deliberately tall and poised and regal. He stops a polite two paces in front of her.

"Your Majesty?" he prompts, when she just looks up at him, searching for the words of something she didn't even know could happen until few days ago. There is a part of her that was hoping he would play along, fall to his knees without a word but he isn't - suddenly he's being all obtuse, and _formal_. There's nothing to fight against, nothing to dig her fingers into; but, oh, there's a hint of a smirk, a promise of wickedness, he _knows_ what him being out of the cell means tonight. 

Maybe she needs to be a bit more commanding to make him behave. Find the shape of it with her fingertips.

"Get on your knees. And come closer," she says, when he sweeps one foot back like he's going to stay exactly where he is, and there's the true twist of his lips as he steps forward in a single stride and sinks down in front of her, and then a slow sweep of his head as he looks up, eyes bright and knowing and awful.

He's utterly hateful, and she's laughably grateful for it because it makes using him the easiest thing in the world. The ache in her shoulders builds like anticipation. Hans blinks up at her, like he's waiting for something.

"Do you expect me to say please?" she looks down at him, eyebrow raised. Apparently, that's enough. 

"For you, Elsa, anything," he says, as his mouth skews like he's hiding a smile and then Hans is lifting the layers of skirts as she spreads her legs, ice-fabric bunching across her thighs (and she could melt away her dress with a thought but she keeps it, like armour) and then, infuriating still, he takes his time. Slips a hand around the back of her knee and presses a kiss to the midpoint of her thigh, his thumb smoothing down her shin. 

He pauses, nestled between her legs, and his stubble scratches light against her skin as he flicks his eyes up to hers - and her grin cracks like ice and Elsa fists her hand in his hair and drags him closer, fingernails catching sharp on the top of his ear as his eyes shutter dark, and _finally_ there's the perfect heat of his mouth pressing against her core. She gasps, stuttered and quick.

She jerks her hips, once, involuntary, and then holds him still for a long minute just because she can, revelling in the rough pressure over her skin and the warmth of his mouth; the way his hand grips at her knee and then quickly releases, palm flat against the side as his fingers bow tight; the panting breath as she lets her hand slip back a little and Hans gasps for air, the current of every breath tracing maps like conquered lands across her skin. 

The storm snaps in her veins and Elsa shifts her supporting hand back across the bed so she can arch backwards, the heat of him solid and perfect between her legs as she shoves at his shoulder with her knee to get him a touch more to the right. She digs her nails into the base of his skull and Hans has no choice but to drag his mouth upwards and latch sweet suction over the spot that feels like raw nerve endings, a choked moan that sears into her skin as her grip tightens.

It's as good as she remembers, and better. She doesn't know how she ever thought she could give this up.

Her fingers slip upwards a little, twist in his hair and Hans does something with his tongue, a tight flick of a circle that draws a shivery moan from the base of her lungs. She wants to pour herself into his mouth, ride his tongue until he can't breathe or maybe simply melt down into the mattress and let him do everything - but, that would hardly be the point, even as she cants her hips to get his mouth closer.

Instead, she lets go of his hair with one last tug and Hans hisses beautifully against her skin. She fists both hands in the bedcovers behind her and holds herself upright, spreads her legs wider so she can watch him; marvels at the flush in his cheeks and the way his eyelids flutter shut as he focuses entirely on her, and the sight of him so utterly content to be on his knees sparks molten and sudden in her stomach.

His hand drifts halfway up the long stretch of her thigh and then catches underneath, urging her leg up a little higher so it hooks over his shoulder and she digs the sharp point of her heel into his pelvis, in case Hans forgets that everything he does is only with her permission. His tongue presses relentlessly against her center and she moans despite herself, pushing her foot up onto her toes.

She's close enough already, the rolling thunder of her blood crackling as anger transmutes into something so much better. Then - oh, that's new, as a finger strokes thickly at her entrance and then two slip inside and Elsa gasps at the sudden stretch, more encouraging than she meant as Hans's breath comes quick and almost laughing against her skin.

It's filling and strange and wonderful - even as she drags the spike of her heel across his back like a warning, as he finds an easy rhythm in the shallow thrust of his hand, and with a breathy kind of growl Elsa wraps a hand around the back of his neck, her nails catching on the edge of his collar.

She holds the shudder of his mouth still, her heart hammering because she's so close and she's not going to let him stop for breath - and then he buries his hand up to the knuckle and there's a curl of his fingers like he's found the other side of that perfect cluster of achingly sensitive skin, his tongue pressing constant and perfect on the front and she comes, gasping.

It feels fireworks ricocheting off her bones. They spread out infinitely and when it's over there is nothing but perfect emptiness left behind, every tension drained away entirely. 

Elsa sets both hands behind her and lets her head fall back, her feet finding the floor again as her breath comes sweet and laughing, until Hans presses a final kiss against her over-sensitive skin like a challenge and she jerks away, bringing her knees together. 

For a moment she just breathes, staring up at the ceiling before she licks her lips, and drags her chin back to her chest so she can look at him. Hans has shifted back to sit on the floor, legs splayed out to either side and his chest heaving, and he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before his hooded eyes flick up to hers.

"Have dinner with me," Elsa says, before he can say anything, and for a split-second something like surprise crosses his face, like he expected her to be - softer, maybe, less brazen, even though she just nearly suffocated him. 

And oh, the way his eyes flash surprised - she's beginning to admit how much she likes that. He's watching her so she looks him over leisurely, taking her time as she notes the strain in the crotch of his trousers and how his cravat is skewed to the side, and she sucks at the inside of her cheek. The kind thing would be to let him go back to his room, but this evening isn't about being _kind_. 

Elsa stands up and brushes her skirts down so they fall demurely over her feet, looking perfectly proper except for the flush in her cheeks.

"That wasn't a request," she says, and steps past him. Her steps ring sure and steady as she crosses over to table and sits down, glances at her plate for a moment before she puts her elbows on the table and links her fingers under her chin. There's that strange slickness between her thighs but mostly she just feels _warm_ , shivery and content and even the lamps in her chamber seem brighter than usual, everything set a little glittery as she quietly waits to see if Hans will obey.

He's still on the floor, head tipped forward and she can't see his face at all. There's the inkling of an idea at the back of her mind, something else she could try as he shifts his weight to one side and draws one arm around to his front - she wants to keep him like this forever, tense and strained and suffering, her command the only thing holding him still. 

"It would be my honour," he manages after a long second, his voice raw and thick and used, before he twists and pushes himself up off the floor, clambering quickly to his feet. Elsa keeps her eyes on him and her smile secure as he strides a little awkwardly over to the table, sitting down with a flash of muscle in his cheeks like a wince. 

He fixes his gaze on the table and when he looks up there's such glazed heat in his eyes, half begging with just the hint of his teeth and edging on desperate, that she finds her smile spreading wider.

"I'm glad I could please you," he says, and her smile falters, but, ah, that was probably the point. "Although I should thank you for not leaving me with frostburn," he says, and it lacks the usual bite. It's possible the fireworks shook something loose because she's feeling a little bit wicked, released and relaxed and capable of anything, and that's the only reason she can find for why she picks up her wine glass and raises it with a small jerk of her thumb towards him.

"Your health," she toasts, and hides her smile as she takes a sip, as Hans runs his tongue along his teeth before he nods back with a smirk that isn't even remotely convincing. 

The sun has long since set, the triangle of sky a deep, glowing teal behind the mountains, and in her confidence she is capable of some kindness - after that she picks up her fork and pierces a vegetable that's cold and congealing under the pastry. As soon as it's clear he has permission Hans eats quickly, barely glancing at her as he clears his plate of something that's less appetising than hers. 

When he's finished he leans back, both hands disappearing under the table and he sits very still as the tendons in his neck string taut. Elsa takes her time, but her hunger is small and fickle and it's not long before she sets her knife and fork down at an angle on her plate, pushing it away an inch.

"May I go?" Hans says, a little strained, and Elsa looks at him. Presses her tongue behind her teeth, her hatred just a slow burn beneath the joy of seeing him squirm, and resists the urge to let her delight spread across her cheeks.

"No", she says, and Hans blinks, lips parted.

"Please?" he tries, imploring with the tilt of his head, and Elsa considers him. She purses her lips as a smile threatens the corners.

"Put your hands on the table," she says, and Hans looks at her like he's only just realised how cruel she can be. 

Elsa waits. His cheeks flush like sunburn but mostly she's just curious to see how far she can push it, how far Hans is willing to obey orders when there's no threat, no promise of reward - and, fascinatingly, he does; placing one arm from elbow to flat palm on the table, then the other, and when he looks up there's nothing but burning anger in his eyes. The honesty is delicious.

"Good," she says, smiling, and he glowers. 

Hans is the first one to drop his gaze as Elsa studies him, arms crossed and her smile growing irresistibly before she sucks in her cheeks and stands up, picking up both their plates and setting them outside her chamber door.

Elsa locks it behind her, and when she turns back Hans hasn't moved except for the curl of his fingers, his fingertips now pressed white against the wood. 

_Perfect_ , she thinks, and bites her lip. The tips of his ears are burning red and she kind of wants to touch, find out what else she can do - but, she keeps telling herself, she needs to take this slow. For now, she's going to be patient, and see what happens when Hans is simply left alone.

She picks a book from the shelves by the door and keeps a neat few feet between them as she rounds the table and slips back into her chair. Flips open the cover and then touches the tip of a finger to her tongue before turning to the first page, balancing the book between her hand and the edge of the table, and when she glances up to check Hans is still behaving he's so focused on her it makes her breath catch.

One of his hands has slipped back an inch, out of line with the other one. "I could freeze them in place, if that would help," Elsa says.

Hans blinks, slow. "That won't be necessary," he says, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, setting his hands level again, and Elsa just nods and turns back to her book, presses her lips together and turns the page.

She gets through half a chapter before she lets herself look at him again: he's hunched over slightly, shoulders slumping forward and his weight pushing on his forearms. He doesn't look up for a long second, but when he does his gaze is a little sharper.

"Thank you for the books," he says, quite suddenly, and she lifts her chin. "I knew Arendelle's history, of course, but some of the laws - it's been quite an education."

Elsa raises an eyebrow, considers whether it's worth letting him draw her into talking - she quirks her mouth to the side in acknowledgement, and turns back to her book. 

"Honestly, being shut in my room all day, doing nothing but reading? I have to admit, it almost reminds me of home." Elsa blinks at that, tension creeping into her shoulders - she knows what he's doing. She should stop him. She should -

"I didn't have a choice, obviously, my brothers were far too busy to spend time with me so I had to teach myself how to pass the time. Some days I never even left my room," he says, and Elsa glances at him despite herself.

Hans smiles, soft and unsure, and drops his gaze to the table. It's just an act. "Some days I didn't see anyone at all," Hans says, and she looks back down at her book. Finds her anger like an anchor and lets herself be impressed by how _empty_ his voice sounds.

She strokes a finger down the edge of the pages. The chair creaks slightly Hans shifts, leaning forward as he makes a point of not moving his arms, and the image out of the corner of her eye is a bird of prey, perched and hungry and waiting. "I wanted to thank you, Elsa, for spending time with me," he says, and her chest squeezes tight. For a moment, that felt too raw to be anything other than sincerity.

There's a slight urge to laugh even as her teeth sink into her lip, hard enough to hurt. He lies, she reminds herself. That's what he does, and she conquers it by the time she looks up at him. 

He's all sad eyes and a crooked curve of a smile, a puppy asking for forgiveness. It's overkill, thank goodness, and she brushes past it easily. "You can go back to your cell now," she says, glancing away, and misses the way his smile slips wide for a second. 

He waits a beat. "Of course," Hans says, keeping it soft and quiet and disappointed, and gets up, heading for his room. At the doorway he lingers for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder as he rests his fingertips on the frame, but Elsa is studiously ignoring him.

Hans watches her for a moment, eyes bright and considering, then steps inside, and shuts the door behind him.


	6. and possibly i like the thrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst at replying to comments but every one makes me clutch my face with glee and fall over, so thank youuu <333
> 
> chapter title from [i like my body when it is with your by ee cummings](http://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/05/27/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your-by-e-e-cummings/) (again).

Morning comes with a slushy kind of rain, and Elsa opens the cell door and is seated at the table when Hans emerges, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. She rests both elbows on the wood and holds the pages of her book flat with a single finger near the crease, and doesn't look up until Hans seats himself opposite her. 

His shirt is loose at the collar, three buttons undone.

"Good morning," he says, and Elsa keeps her face blank. The shaving kit is spread haphazardly across his end of the table, a covered plate already waiting on the side.

"I'm having breakfast elsewhere. I would appreciate it if you were quick," Elsa says, as Hans rests his fingertips on the base of the mirror before pulling it forward, lining it up in front of him. She can almost see the questions lining up behind his eyes, decides which one is mostly likely to get an answer, which one would be most useful.

"And what do I get, if I am?" Hans asks, smile sweet and sharp, teasing at the shape of this thing between them. His eyes never leave her face, even as he arranges the kit in front of him and flicks open the razor.

The mantra reminding herself she's got this is more of a faint buzz, settling into her bones. "I'll do my work today in here, instead of in my study," Elsa says, looking down at her book, and Hans sets his shoulders back and reaches for the lather brush.

"I'll do what I can," he says, catching her eye as he sets to mixing up the soap, and then laughs all light flirtation as Elsa purses her lips, a flash of a frown. "I'll be done before you know it," he promises, and starts to swirl the lather over his jaw.

Elsa pulls her book closer and focuses entirely on the words. The rain patters lightly against the window, drilling loud in the empty silence for a moment before the wind changes and it drops to a soft, distant beat against the roof. 

"Did you sleep well?" Hans asks suddenly, catching her eye over the top of the mirror. He's halfway through the second shave, soap still thick across his throat.

"No," Elsa says, instantly, and then frowns. "I mean, yes, I did, but. No. We are not talking. I am not letting you out for polite _conversation_."

"Ah," Hans says, and she does not care what his expression is - she glares down at her book. The taut scrape of the razor continues slow and steady for a minute before he sets the razor down and wipes his hands on the towel, snapsnots of movement out of the corner of her eye as she ignores him. 

"In that case," he says as the chair creaks back, and she presses two fingers against the pages so hard it makes her knuckles ache. "Perhaps there's something else I could do for you," and he's rounded the table and is sinking to one knee at her side, his fingertips ghosting against her calf - 

She grabs him by the throat. Hard enough to choke him, fingertips digging into the flesh of his neck.

"Did I ask you to?" Elsa hisses, and Hans bares his teeth as he winces, eyes pained-narrow. His pulse beats hard and fast against her thumb.

It was instinct that made her move but now that she's got him like this, his tendons shifting against her palm as he swallows, she doesn't want to let go. His hand flew up to grab at her wrist but he clenched it before it touched her and now it hangs between them, half-uncurled and hovering as he makes no move to stop her. She can appreciate the effort. 

Elsa flexes her fingers just to see his eyes flash darker and then releases, lets Hans drop forwards to land heavily on his knees. "My apologies, Your Majesty," he gasps, touching a hand to his throat.

This was not her plan for the morning. She's not going to let anything he does change that. 

"Get back in your cell. I'll be back in an hour," Elsa says, and Hans licks his lips, and goes. She flips her book shut with a single finger tucked over the cover, and sighs.

It would feel a lot more like a victory if there wasn't such a pulse between her legs, demanding and tight. 

 

She doesn't let him touch her for two days after that. She shuts down every attempt to draw her into conversation and holds her face as smooth and blank as she can manage; spends hours pouring over trade agreements while Hans sits at the other end of the table and reads whatever books she allows him, seafaring and geometry and ancient histories, hoping something might hold his attention so he'll stop bothering _her_.

It doesn't stop him from talking, of course. And, despite herself, she starts listening - to his stories about exploring the Southern Isles palace and the orchards filled with apples, small and sweet and intense; the days when he was still young enough to get excited about the first snow, tearing out of the castle so he could catch snowflakes in his hands (she allows herself to look up and frown at that, because that's not even subtle. He grins, caught); of state dinners and the time one of his brothers put a live lobster on his plate, and he'd been shut in his room for a week after he had accidentally thrown it clear across the room and hit someone important in the face.

Elsa covers her mouth, and stares hard at the letter she's writing.

On the morning of the third day she wakes up listening to the rain and finds an odd lightness in her chest, and it takes a moment to realise she's actually looking forward to listening to him talk - so she hurries him through his routine and leaves breakfast in his cell, sweeps out before he can even ask what's wrong and spends the morning being visible and accessible and occupied in the throne room. 

Anna's busy with Kristoff so Elsa only sees her for a brief moment in the afternoon, a dashing hello as Anna runs past laughing, and then Elsa's in her study until she realises she's squinting at a page in the half-darkness, furiously going over a sentence that stopped making sense half an hour ago.

_Stop being ridiculous_ , she tells herself, and gets up. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time-" she starts as she opens the cell door, before she suddenly remembers who she is talking to and presses her lips together, stands straighter. 

Hans smiles, quick and small, and somehow it infuriates her. He's dressed for dinner, cravat and coat and everything neatly smooth, and her fists clench as she whirls around. It's barely two steps before the _want_ uncoils in her chest, all slick and tempting.

Halfway to the table she turns sharply on her heel, her braid whipping violently at the air, and finds Hans a few paces behind her. "Kneel," she says, and the way his eyes flash delighted and knowing doesn't help at all. Still, he drops to one knee without hesitation and shifts his other leg down as Elsa just stares at him, tapping her fingers against her elbow.

She gathers her skirt up as she steps closer (it's all sleek silk today, long enough to just brush the floor as she walks) and holds it above her knees, and Hans briefly sucks at his top lip as he reaches up, his fingertips hovering an inch from the exposed strip of thigh.

"You may," Elsa says, because she still doesn't know how ask for it, and luckily Hans plays along; his eyes dart to hers for a flash, his expression so fleeting it's unreadable, and then he's pushing her skirt all the way up so it gathers over her stomach and pressing a butterfly kiss to the fuzz of light hair just above her core, a tease of heat near her pressure point. 

For a moment she fears he's going to be _gentle_ \- her hand immediately curls around the back of his head, ready to drag him in line, but she's barely tightened her grip before Hans surges closer and sucks once, hard, over her nerve endings before flicking his tongue up between her folds.

Elsa gasps, slides her foot a little further to the right and there's a noise like a hum, appreciative, and she doesn't mind only because it vibrates so gorgeously through her. His tongue is wetter than she is but something's building already as his tongue slips up and inside for a twist of a moment, and she digs her nails into his skull as his mouth catches over the curl of her, sucks like a kiss. 

The feather-brush of his fingertips is almost too intimate, teasing and shivery as his free hand skims around the back of her thigh - so she straightens her leg, pushing down into her heel and catching the flat of his palm against her bare skin in wordless permission, and that sounds suspiciously like a moan as he curls his hand a little tighter and arches against her. 

It's slick and hot and almost perfect - she wants him closer, his tongue to slide a little lower but when she tries to shift her foot to the side her legs wobble, barely keeping her standing.

"Oh," she breathes, and with a gasp she tightens her grip on his hair just to hold herself upright. His ragged groan goes straight against her core and she shivers, half-bent over him as she locks her knees solid and finds his shoulder under her hand, a steady warmth that isn't nearly stable enough.

This was not the plan, is her main thought, as she digs her fingers in and tries desperately to not fall over. She goes on instinct: both thumbs tuck into the hollow of his shoulders and she shoves him away, hard enough that he unbalances and flies sprawling onto his back, yelping as his elbow hits the stone and his hand slaps down.

She brings her legs together, finds her balance as slickness dampens her thighs.

"Elsa -" Hans says, pushing himself up on his elbows and frowning like he doesn't understand what he did wrong, and then she steps forward, one foot next to his ribs and places the other on his chest, the toe of her shoe on the base of his sternum and her sharp heel digging into his stomach. He sinks back down, spine hard against the floor and his arms pushing out to a low slant, carefully not touching her.

"Stay," she says, and there's that fleeting expression again. He masters it, blinks up at her as he licks his lips and then she melts away the skirt of her dress and crouches down, her knees either side of his head and he's pushing himself up as she grabs him by the hair and pulls his mouth back to her. 

He's so _eager_ , working his tongue between her folds until he finds her entrance and thrusts inside, stiff and then teasingly light as he flicks it out and along, the barest hint of teeth over her core before he slips back and works his tongue inside her again. Her thighs are still shaky but at least she can hold herself upright, rock her hips into each press of his tongue and let the shivers uncoil into something better.

His arm curls around the back of her thigh and up so he can press his hand against her stomach, hold himself as close as possible as his fingers splay warm over the join between her skin and her bodice. It's strange and intimate and tingling but she allows it, for the moment, because every point of skin on skin feels like it has a direct thread to the lightning behind her core, and she's so _close_.

Elsa arches, pushing herself into his mouth and without thinking she puts her hand behind her to balance, and Hans moans sudden and urgent when she finds the jut of his hip under her palm. 

She bites her lip. Feels impossibly warm and incandescent and close to exploding. Reaches over and brushes her fingers, featherlight, over the strained press in his breeches just for the way he whines and tries to buck up into her touch, and then pulls back and buries both hands in his hair, holds him tighter and rides his tongue as she comes. 

That's perfect; the shivering like waves that lap up and up from the flex of his tongue and she lets herself be overwhelmed, not caring how choked her cries are until she's out of breath and aware of her own body again.

His hair is tickling her palm. It feels disturbingly like a caress so she quickly lets go, silk slipping through her fingers before she rolls back onto the balls of her feet and stands up, looming over him.

"Dinner?" Hans says, breathless, before she can. Elsa purses her lips, hiding her smile.

"If you could spare the time," she says, and reforms her dress with a wave of her hand as she steps away. 

(After that she makes a point of forcing them both to sit through dinner before she splays him out on the floor, because she's getting predictable.)

 

It's three days before she sits on the edge of her bed and orders him on his knees again, and another five before an afternoon spent with an impossibly rude dignitary makes her spend the evening with Hans flat on his back, his wrists wrapped in ice and pinned to the floor as she just uses his mouth until she's forgotten everything but warmth, and as summer drips into autumn Elsa finds herself in something like a routine.

Mornings pass uneventfully in her chambers: she unlocks the cell door as soon as she's dressed and sits by the cold fireplace until Hans emerges.

"Good morning," he always says, with invariable cheer, and that, at least, is disconcerting. Even when it's been a week since she last ordered him to touch her Hans is still all bright eyes and an easy smile - she's considering the possibility that it's just because Hans knows she finds it so irritating. She doesn't know how to make it _stop_. 

(Some days it's just a smirk from Hans across the table that makes the base of her neck burn with hatred, like she's the punchline to a story she only half-heard. When Hans kneels by the side of her chair he's so eager that she likes to hold him back, fingers twisted in his hair like a leash as he strains towards her. He begs prettily, desperately, sucking on his bottom lip as his attention flicks heated and intense between her eyes and her slick folds, so strung-out that Elsa wonders if his dark eyes are still all just an act, or if she's really rewarding bad behaviour.)

For the rest of the day Elsa works: often in her chambers, at the dining table that's dotted with ink. She prefers to keep an eye on Hans as much as she can so he sits opposite her and reads whatever books she has allowed that day, left in a pile beside his cell door. 

"Have I told you about the time my brother left me stranded on an island," he says, often when she's reached the point of staring out of the window, tapping her fingers lightly against the sixth page of a twenty-seven page document. As usual she ignores him and invariably he ignores that, ploughs into a story she pretends not to listen to, and she's never quite off guard around him but neither does she flinch every time he rises and gets another book. It feels a bit like progress. 

Anna is always a priority, happy hours spent doing nothing but finding all the ways she can make her sister laugh, but Elsa reminds herself she has work to do - she makes a point of going to the throne room in the afternoon some days, or the town just to see her kingdom breathing, wherever she needs to be. 

On some days there's an endless trickle of small annoyances dotted along her spine; an ill-timed message or a thinly-veiled threat or just an arrogant captain that she has to be pleasant to (and she's _so good_ at that these days, clamping down on every reaction with such strength that there's not even a flicker of anything less than gracious interest, except when she's with Anna - or Hans), and it isn't quite a problem because those are the days when she kicks Hans onto his back and doesn't let him breathe until she's uncoiled and calm again.

Evenings are hers - she finds the difference between days when she wants quiet and days when she wants release, and doesn't let anything Hans does change her mind. More often than not she sends him back to his cell after dinner without the faintest brush of fingertips, but some days she _wants_ , and Hans is so eagerly obedient.

It works, somehow, and that's the most surprising thing. 

Weeks pass and she learns what she likes - the vulnerability of it when he's barefoot and shirtless, all that bare skin that she can drag her nails across. Her ice swirls over his chest like a paintbrush leaving trails of the faintest blushing red, and she marvels at how easily she finds the most sensitive hollows of him, finds the second between a gasp and a flinch, finds how strangled his groans can get before they have a direct line to her core.

She finds that when she wants it to last longer she can order him to keep his hands behind his back, and somehow when it's just his mouth coaxing her to climax it feels more intense, purer, the tight blue at the core of a flame instead of the flickering orange. 

And, afterwards, when she's finished and sated and warm, Elsa orders him to stay and keep her company. 

("Tell me a story," she even says, when Hans seems particularly desperate, all flushed and sleepy-eyed and swaying when he stands - because they always seem a little more honest, a little less reformed, when he's preoccupied.)

That's almost fascinating, how hard he gets from just lavishing attention on her thighs - she bites her lip as she considers the strain in his breeches, and watches him out of the corner of her eye as his hands, white-knuckled, stay unflinching above the table.

The important thing is that he's suffering. Sometimes she lets the arch of her foot brush along the outside of his leg just for the delicious way Hans growls, strained and white-lipped and baring his teeth even as he averts his eyes, stares down at the floor and pieces himself back together, and she has to admit - she's getting curious about what would happen if she let him fall apart. 

Elsa lets the idea pool at the base of her spine and into the shape of this thing to see if it fits. She considers him after every time she's left warm and shaky and thinks, _not yet_ , insists Hans stays in the room with her until he's soft and unsatisfied. She dismisses him once she's sure there's no lingering heat under his skin, and quietly smiles at the way he digs his fingernails into his palm.

Two weeks later Hans kneels in front of her with his knees spread wide and his hands behind his back, his head bowed as he finds his breath. Elsa perches on the edge of her bed and her thighs are still a little shaky as she draws them together, considers him and thinks, _yes_. 

"Touch yourself," she breathes, and a shudder runs through him, and a second later one hand is flat against the floor and the other is squeezing himself through his breeches. 

"Fuck," he gasps, and then bites down on his lip and tugs his breeches open, focused entirely on himself and so Elsa crosses her legs, draws her arms in close and lets the bedcovers bunch under her fingers as she watches him wipe a hand across his mouth, still slick and shining from her, and then wrap it around his cock.

His jaw falls slack with a strangled groan, jerking his hips like he can't keep them still, and his cock slips thick and pink through the curl of his fingers. 

There's no style, or performance - his eyelids flutter shut and his fist strokes quick, a roll of his thumb when it is wrapped around the head and he's all stuttered gasps and biting his lip as he leans back on one hand and rocks his hips into the other. 

It feels impossibly warm again, a prickling along the curve of her leg as Elsa considers ordering him to stop just because she can, but, instead, she arches her foot up on to her toes and watches as Hans reaches down to roll his palm across his balls before he strokes back up and squeezes at the top. 

He lets his head fall back, the long stretch of his neck pale and vulnerable as he pants for air and then he's coming, messy and spilling over his hand and moaning her name with calculated abandon. 

Elsa frowns at that, the heat dissipating back into something like hatred, but then Hans draws his head back, keeping his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock as he opens his eyes slowly, flushed and breathless and entirely wrung out. She wants to take the wrecked way he's looking at her right now and keep it somewhere secret forever. 

"You can go," Elsa says, when she's had her fill of watching him pull himself back into a coherent thing, and Hans wets his lips.

"Are you-" he starts, then swallows and ducks his head, shifts so his weight on his knees. "I could stay," he says, and flicks his eyes from the tight press of her thighs to the heated way she's watching him.

"That will be all," she says, cold, more aware of the flush in her cheeks than she would like to be, and Hans drops his gaze to the floor. There's a jump of muscle in his cheek, but his hands splay open on his thighs and then he's tucking his cock back into his breeches, lacing them up just enough to be decent and levering up onto his feet.

"Good night, Your Majesty," Hans says, as he turns, and she narrows her eyes at his back. 

Elsa lets him go without a word, because she doesn't let anything he does change her mind. 

 

Evenings are hers. Most days she insists Hans stays and keeps her company after she's finished, keeps him strained and waiting and frustrated on a whim, because she prefers him like this, all hot glances and white-tipped fingers against the table top. 

But, she thinks, curling her hand around the base of his skull, there's something lovely about watching him fall apart. On those days Hans wraps his mouth around her core and she tangles her fingers in his hair and tells him to touch himself. 

(If he ever asks - and he does, twice, before he learns not to - she always say no, despite the thrill of him blushing around the words as he shifts his weight onto his knees, and it would be so easy to say yes. Of course she refuses.)

He never hesitates; presses his mouth wide and overwhelming against her core as he uses both hands to get his breeches undone faster and strokes himself quick and rough, his palm dry or with the barest slick he can get from curling two fingers inside her. His groans spark against her skin and she kind of likes the way his mouth slides a little sloppy, a little less refined as his breath comes ragged and heavy and so _hot_.

Perhaps it's the way he chooses her over his own pleasure - the way he's smart enough to make sure she comes first even as every other pretence crumbles, his tongue weighing like an anchor through her shivering, and he wraps his thumb and index finger around the base of his cock until she's done. 

Elsa loosens her grip from his hair and catches her voice again, leans back in her chair and crosses her ankles.

"You may," she says, and Hans finishes himself off in a few short squeezes, lip caught between his teeth and his gaze lingering somewhere beside her shoulder. She never told him to do that, wait for her command, but now that Hans has started it she's not going to let it _stop_.

She rather likes the way the warmth pools again like an ache below her spine, a promise of potential rather than something she has to deal with. 

"You may go," Elsa says, and Hans blinks twice, slow, swallows before his eyes take the long way up to hers. "If you want," she adds, just to see what he does with a choice.

It's satisfying to know she can rely on this, at least - he chooses her, every time, and the door to his cell stays open.


	7. and i'll rise like the break of dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg I'm so glad people are enjoying this and your comments are the nicest thing and I actually cannot deal with how happy they make me. ahldjsjf. _thank you_. 
> 
> minor warning for unprotected sex, but this is fairytale land where STDs don't exist and pregnancy only happens after consulting strange women who live deep in the woods. *handwaves vaguely*

Autumn briskly sweeps on, the grass of the castle gardens frost-tipped without any help from her, and Elsa starts to order for the fireplace in her chambers to be kept stoked throughout the day.

"I can't let him freeze to death," Elsa says, when Anna questions it over lunch together in the dining hall, but that's not quite it - Hans has taken to wearing his coat in the mornings, smiling across the table at her like nothing's wrong, and maybe he thinks he can't just ask but it still makes her stomach twist to look at him.

There are rules to this, she finds. Denying him the very basics just makes her feel awful. 

The days get shorter, and on the morning Elsa wakes to find the sky thickly grey and snow flurries outside her window she barely speaks, stares out the window and keeps her hands firmly clasped. Hans keeps trying to coax her into talking but she brushes him off and leaves as soon as she can, but when she gets to the throne room it's cold, colder than it should be with the fireplace roaring, and everyone that comes to speak with her seems to spend more time looking at the ice on the windows than at her.

Her palms itch with the want to be covered. Elsa rubs her thumb across her skin and tells herself she doesn't need the gloves anymore - but she's never been able to shake the idea that every snowfall is her fault. Some days she would see the snow and then have to search through the panic beating in her chest to find what had set her off, except there was always nothing and she wouldn't be able to breathe until someone convinced her it was natural, it was just winter, it wasn't her fault.

It's barely midday when Elsa escapes, in the second after the doors close behind the last petitioner, and the snow is settling in thick drifts and still coming down in soft, slow flakes that stick to the windowpanes. Work is doing nothing to distract her - her own snowflakes flutter behind her as she clutches at her elbows and hurries aimlessly down the empty corridor.

The doors leading to the gardens hang open and inviting, left ajar by someone rushing through - Anna, most likely, but Elsa's feet stick when she tries to take a step towards them and she knows she's too caught up in her own head, unsettled and jumpy and waspish to be good company. She doesn't want to put this on anyone else but being alone feels like defeat, an admission that she can't handle this. 

Her chambers, then. The snow doesn't follow her up the stairs but she still has to take a breath before she creates the key to Hans's cell, stares at the ice in her hand for a moment before fitting it in the lock.

Hans is lounging on his bed with a book, his head propped up by the arm angled behind him on the pillow. His chin jerks up when she opens the door.

"Bad day?" he says, and Elsa just looks at him. His mouth slips pleased. "I'm flattered you always come to me."

"Follow me," she says, setting her expression like stone, and turns away. 

Heat flicks across the bare skin of her arms as she waits in front of the fireplace, and when Hans steps into place beside her Elsa studies him out of the corner of her eye - he's only in his shirt and breeches, his coat left behind in his room.

There's something hesitant about the way he's standing, too close to be polite but carefully not touching. 

"Are you okay?" Hans asks, and there's a slight crease between his eyebrows when she glances at him, genuine concern in the slant of his mouth, and for a moment Elsa has the most ridiculous urge to _talk_ to him.

She clamps down on it. Unfolds her arms and sets her shoulders back, glancing across the room for a second as she finds her hatred like match in a snowstorm and holds on. It's as steady as ever, a smouldering glow that heats every moment of his company, and when Elsa turns back to him Hans takes one look at her face and moves half a step back.

He obviously regrets it immediately, but it's too late - it's exactly what she needed. 

"Get on your knees," Elsa says, and, for a second, Hans hesitates. His gaze sweeps down to her hands and back to her face before he sinks down to kneel in front of her, the first time in weeks when he hasn't eagerly obeyed her every word, but it's enough to make ice flare sharp and vicious between her fingers.

Elsa snaps her palm up. A blizzard slams into Hans and sends him flying onto his back, a half-cry as he hits the floor and her ice keeps going, surging over him until suddenly it snaps back and he's pinned to the floor, wrists encased in thick ice above his head, naked and splayed out and already half-hard.

"Stay still," Elsa says, smiling sharp and blinding and scattered. Her dress melts away with an angry flick of her hand and Hans barely has time to shake his head once and gaze up at her before she's straddling his head and pulling him up by the hair.

He strains up to reach her even as her ankles press onto the thick of his arms, forcing him down. In this, at least, he is predictable, and _good_ \- his cheeks warm and soft and still so smooth up to the scratch of his sideburns between her thighs, his tongue hot and wet and perfect as he sucks sweetly at every inch of her flesh he can reach, and when her orgasm comes it's so quick she gasps mostly in surprise.

Except - it's a weak, unsettled shudder of a thing, barely spreading beyond the pool of her stomach. Her spine aches and her fingers are still wound tight in his hair and she wants to rip him apart just on the hope it would make her feel _better_.

It feels like she's missed something. His head drops back with a dull thunk against the floor and even the pained hiss he gives in response just makes her angry, makes her palms itch with the need to do something else, something she can't quite find the words for because for the first time that wasn't enough.

The fire crackles and she looks down at Hans, framed between the join of her thighs, and he's frowning again. Despite the wetness of her dripping across his chin he somehow just looks concerned, his eyes never leaving her face. 

Hans licks his lips. "Are you okay, Elsa?" he asks again, and she looks away with a roll of her eyes.

"Just be quiet," Elsa says, and shifts onto the balls of her feet, levering her weight off him. Perhaps she'll go for a walk in the mountains. Surround herself with nothing but snow and let ice burst out of her until there's nothing left.

Her ankle wobbles from the strange angle and she puts one hand behind her for balance, finding his stomach hard and flat under her palm, and Hans catches his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes fluttering shut. The rope of his arms strains against the ice, all quivering with the fight to stay still, and, ah - Elsa twists a little, glancing behind her to see his cock standing proud and achingly hard a few inches away from her fingers.

Oh. Why not, she thinks, her thoughts catching up with the _want_ that's finally settled sure and clear in her mind. It's this or losing herself among the pine trees again. 

She rises up enough to shift back and straddle his hips, her knees pressing below his ribs and her heels digging into the top of his thighs, and she carefully doesn't touch his prick as she settles her weight across his legs. Her nails trace across the plane of his stomach and there's the jump of muscles under her fingertips, tense and fluttering as he tries to press up into her touch. 

He's so _warm_ beneath her - the whole of his side from ankle to cheek pinking from the heat of the fire, and his lip slides forgotten along the edge of his teeth as Hans lifts his head to look at her, sees his cock equidistant between the join of her thighs and the fingertips resting lightly on his stomach.

" _Please_ ," Hans gasps, artless and unspecified, and Elsa skews her mouth to the side as she considers him. His head falls back against the polished floor and he stares up at her, eyes lidded and heavy with such raw, undisguised _need_ that her stomach flutters in response. 

She's tempted, suddenly, to just stand up and walk away, just to prove to both of them that she could, but the desperate way he's straining up to her is so much more interesting. Curiosity licks at her palm. 

The manacles around his wrists disappear with a flutter of her fingers. She lets her smile slip open as Hans doesn't move, just rolls his hand once to check that he can and then looks back to her, his thumb rubbing at the pale underside of his wrist. 

"Don't move," she says, and Hans presses his lips together, his cock twitching. Elsa drags her nails down between the angle of his hips and then finally wraps her hand around his cock, velvet heat under her palm and Hans gasps, choked and keening.

Elsa bites her lip. Slowly, teasingly, she rises up on her knees and drags the head of his cock along her folds until she finds her entrance, and Hans's face falls so desperate, his hands curling into tight fists, that Elsa lingers with the slight stretch pressing into her just so she can watch him struggle to hold himself together.

It's only when his fingers start to uncurl that she draws his prick inside her. It's the same stretch she gets from his fingers but she's already wet and open from the working of his tongue and it just feels _incredible_ , filling her up exquisitely as she sinks down all the way and her hips press into his, his ribs warm beneath her palms. She tilts her chin to the ceiling and lets her eyes drift shut, the burn lovelier than she ever could have imagined and she rolls her hips once, experimentally, just to find where he ends and she begins. 

"God, Elsa, please -" Hans begs and she lunges forward to wrap a hand around his throat just to _shut him up_ but, actually, that's just what she needs; his choked gasp and the flex of his neck as he swallows; how sharply he brings his arms down but ends up stalling, his fingertips tucked into the corner of her knee as he just lets her own him.

"I said don't move," Elsa snarls, and Hans pleads silently (eyes blown wide, brows peaked and desperate) until she rocks her hips forward and his mouth falls open, eyes squeezing shut and he's a picture of perfect agony, his pulse hammering against her palm. 

Yes, she thinks, and rocks her hips again, the stretch of him sliding inside her and the angle pressing just right that she forgets about punishing him - Elsa closes her eyes and starts using him instead, rolling her hips like he's nothing but the solid heat slipping inside her.

Her braid bounces against her chest and when Hans's fingers drift up her thigh she tightens her grip on his throat, a warning. He thrusts up, an involuntary jerk of his hips that pushes him gorgeously deeper inside her so she does it again, squeezes her fingers as she slams her hips back down and she can't stop herself from crying out. 

It feels amazing, having something to fight against as she clenches deep and Hans's throat jumps under her grip, and when she opens her eyes she finds him staring at her through lids so heavy they're almost closed, his cheeks burning and his bottom lip bruised red.

She has the most obscene urge to press her mouth against his. Instead, she wraps both hands around his neck and rolls her hips like crashing waves in a storm, drawing him in deeper and harder with every thrust and she's molten and gasping and so close again already, her body aching with the need for it, and she closes her eyes and just lets herself _feel_.

When she climaxes everything snaps so tight she almost throttles him, her hands locking around his neck as her orgasm shakes through all the way to the bones of her wrists. He bucks up, arching into her, pale circles blooming across her skin as his fingertips clutch at her thighs and Hans comes with the most gloriously strangled cry she's ever heard, broken and reedy and entirely hers.

She loosens her grip before she opens her eyes, presses her hands over his collarbone as Hans gasps for air. That - that was almost enough. Elsa sucks in a long breath and she's empty and boneless like she's been reduced to just the thud of her heart. It's steadier than it's been all day.

His cock pulses thickly inside her and for a moment she wants to just sit there and enjoy it (because, oh, it feels _magnificent_ ), but his thumb strokes over the curve of her thigh and she also wants to punch into his chest and rip out his still beating heart with her fingernails. He's looking at her again, lips pressed and brows drawn together as his throat jumps.

Elsa bites at the inside of her cheek when his cock slips out, pushing up on her toes and stepping away so the fire licks warm up her spine as she stands with her back to him.

Hans rolls onto his side and coughs a few times as her dress reforms with a thought, the easiest thing in the world, and she breathes out. After a moment she folds her arms across her stomach and glances over her shoulder, just enough to see his hand pressed against the floor. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, softer than she meant to.

"Yeah," Hans manages, sounding rough and raw and completely done, and he coughs once more before he pushes up onto his knees, his weight still on his hands. 

"You may go," Elsa says, and his breath comes ragged as he staggers to his feet. He stops close, the heat of him like a furnace on her right, and for a second there's a shift in the heat behind her like his hand is hovering over the small of her back. A beat later and he rubs a hand across his chest, glances at her as their shoulders almost brush.

"I'm going to need some new clothes," he says, wincing through the words, and Elsa jerks her head towards him, catching the sight of all that flushed bare skin, his neck looking a little blotchy, before quickly turning away. Right. That thing she can do with her ice. She's never actually figured out where the material goes.

"I'll have some brought up," Elsa says, fixing her eyes on the snow piling outside the window, everything softly bright and no longer making her feel like her ribcage is too small. Her core feels bruised, aching and empty, but she presses her thighs together and finds the dull burn like a smoulder, steady and warm.

"Is there something else?" she asks, as Hans lingers by her side. She glances at him again when he says nothing, and his eyes flick down to her mouth, slow and obvious.

"I suppose not," he says, swaying towards her for an instant that has her tensing, fists curling, before he steps away. Her gaze sweeps over the length of him from shoulder to toe, pale and freckled and not making the slightest move to cover himself up, and she forces herself not to look away despite the blush rising in her cheeks as she follows him across to the cell.

The room dips colder with every step further from the fire. Hans goes straight for the thin blanket on his bed, bunches it under his fingers and flings it around his shoulders, and looks back at Elsa just as the door claps shut.

A trunk of warm clothes arrives within an hour, brought up from one of the many storage rooms. It's wooden and dusty and fastened with a cracked leather buckle, and two servants place it by the foot of her bed as Kai looks on, his mouth a thin line.

"Your Majesty, I haven't had the chance to sort through what's in there - "

"It'll be fine," Elsa says, waving him off with a smile. She regrets it when the chamber door is locked and she only glances through the pile of shirts before she lets Hans out to pick through it - he pulls out a few things from the top and is shrugging on a dark blue jacket when she spots something, an embroidered cuff, peeking out from under a plain grey cloak. She finds her hand is shaking when she reaches for it.

It was her father's, is all she can think, and when she snatches her hand back without touching it she finds Hans watching her, silently, and he blinks once like he's filing that away for later.

Maybe it's just a day for old wounds. After a beat Hans takes a step towards her, fingers outstretched, but she waves him off with a vicious jerk of her hand and locks him back in his cell, and goes to find Anna. 

 

 

Winter comes on in flurries and breaks, and Elsa spends hours in the castle gardens finding the edge between her ice and the snow drifts, making statues out of the air. At first she creates whatever takes her fancy; abstract fractals that grow out of the ground into trees and towers and dragons (it's just ice, thankfully - it seems only snow can hold life, and she still doesn't know what to do about Marshmallow. She's reluctant to create anything else that can _talk_ ).

That's always been easy for her - creating without thought, letting the ice find the shape it wanted to be. The hard thing was always _control_ , and before she was hidden away she never got the hang of recreating things in ice, dolls and flowers and whatever Anna asked for all turning out more fractal and sharp than she expected. There was no time to learn how to be delicate when all her energy was poured into not exploding. 

She starts small - brushes the snow off one of the neat hedgerows and picks a spray of leaves, barely larger than her hand, and freezes it upright on the table. She studies it: four leaves on the left and five on the right, a tiny hole off-center in one in the middle, veins tiny and delicate like spiderwebs.

When she was twelve she spent hours copying out Old Norse phrases, catching on the difference between _reiðr_ and _reiða_ countless times as she found the meaning in the forms. She didn't stop until she knew them by heart, could trace the shape of the words with her eyes closed, replicating each line with a steady, careful hand.

Elsa breathes out, and makes a copy grow in the center of her palm. She gets the four leaves on one side and five on the other, but each is a flawless, flat oval, the veins pointed and split like snowflakes. She huffs, shakes it back into the air, and tries again. 

The next one is better - the veins unnaturally uniform but thin, the leaves just starting to curl, and hoarfrost coats the very edges until she touches it lightly with the tip of a finger and it all dissolves away, leaving a perfect, minute jagged border on each leaf. 

It takes all afternoon, the winter sun dipped behind the the mountains and the aurora borealis starting its slow, languorous weave across the sky, before she has it perfect; the top two leaves smaller and tightly curled, two at the base just overlapping and a tiny hole off-center in one in the middle. Elsa grins, and creates another one just to be sure.

(That evening she allows Hans to have dinner with her but answers his gentle questions with the barest, dismissive answers, and when he's not looking she traces the shape of his ear, his jaw, his throat with her eyes and imagines how she would shape the ice to match. She won't practice with him, though. In her powers she is absolute - she cannot let him see her as anything less than perfect.)

Hans keeps trying to _touch_ her as the days roll on, the kind of sweet, innocent touches that she catches in Anna's hands, lingering over Kristoff's when they think she's not looking. His fingers hover in the inch of air holding the heat of her; curving over her waist when she opens the cell door and steps to the side to let him pass, trailing next to her hand as he rounds the table before kneeling between her legs, reaching for the tip of her braid when she's arching over him - and she always bats him off before he can make contact but it doesn't seem to discourage him. 

Once, the only time, his face is buried between her legs and her hands are resting on her thighs, released from reigning him in by his hair because he's working her like he can read the want in her skin. His palm smooths up over the inside of her knee and then his fingers are threading through hers, his palm rough and hot and a little slick like he's _nervous_ as he clutches over her knuckles. When she jerks her hand half an inch back Hans follows, doesn't let go - and when she cautiously relents, not quite clutching back but still trapping his thumb under hers, Hans moans quiet as a secret and surges forward, sucking her core like she's everything, pressing everything he has into her skin. 

There's a shift in the weather she wasn't prepared for. Hours spent with Hans become - less angry, or, at least, less tense. She still delights in the way his eyes blow wide when he's in pain, and the sweet breathless choking sound he makes when he's so close and she won't let him come, and the humiliation of having the prince on his knees and supplicating himself to her - so surely she must still hate him, even if the burn settles a little lower every time her thoughts drift to him in her busy afternoons. 

It's so easy to remember how infuriating Hans is after days spent with Anna, going from sunlight to shifting shadows to know which she prefers. Hans plays like he's courting her and is all the more courtly when she waves him off like it's nothing, and she almost likes the way he keeps _trying_ , even if it's just for the feverish way he looks at her when the only press of her skin is her hand around his throat.

The anger is still there. Perhaps it's the tension, the aching way she snaps when she decides she wants release, that's started to loosen a little. An easier space between the tips of her fingers. 

As the winter solstice approaches she hurries through her duties in the mornings (although there are less in the winter, when the trade routes start to become treacherous and everything is about holding on, keeping it steady until spring) and then to the gardens, where there's peace, and solitude, and an increasing number of perfectly formed rose bushes made entirely of ice. 

"Elsa!" Anna voice calls from the wisteria arches and by the time Elsa turns Anna is by her side, curling both her hands around her arm. "Hi," she beams, and Elsa grins back, and then, "I want a christmas tree," Anna says, breathless and excited and without preamble. Elsa raises an eyebrow.

"We... already have several," she draws out carefully, and Anna's laugh comes out in a huff, clouding in the air in front of her.

"I mean, one of yours. Made of ice," Anna says, and gestures towards the perfectly symmetrical fir tree that Elsa made weeks ago, that sits squat and glittering on the other side of the lawn. "I was thinking we could put it in the courtyard, and invite the whole town to come see it?" she says, twisting her fingers together as though she thinks Elsa is actually capable of denying her anything these days. 

In the end the tree she creates is more design that instinct, as tall as the spray of the fountain and covered in baubles and strings of carefully tiny beads and a snowflake like a star on top - all ice, all created in one rush from her hands that made a cone of hoarfrost and then dissolved away at her touch to reveal something beautiful, and the breathless noise of appreciation Anna makes is her favourite thing about it.

She's beginning to realise that the best thing about her powers is that she gets to share them.


	8. all I want is to be your harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are my favourite <33333
> 
> chapter title from [Vienna Teng - Harbor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKDXe0FP2wc)

The winter solstice comes and goes and Elsa celebrates in the courtyard; there's the tree made entirely of her ice still standing strong in the center and Anna's arm looped through the crook of her elbow, the air sweet with chocolate and almonds and woodsmoke, and just to show off she creates a perfect ice replica of Sven to sit beside the tree, his tongue stuck to a bauble hanging off the lowest branch.

Kristoff's bark of delight warms her more deeply than the spiced wine she's got her hands wrapped around. Anna catches her by the wrist and pulls her off to dance, handing Elsa's mug to Kristoff to hold as he looks on, smiling soft in the firelight, and the last Christmas that felt like this was when she was seven; her father's hand on her shoulder and Anna tiny and giggling by her side as they joined in the Jul celebrations, everything smelling like burnt sugar and chestnuts as candles lit up the tree.

The mug of gløgg has long since worn off by the time she says goodnight to Anna and Kristoff and makes her way up to her bedchambers, but she's warm and flushed and dizzy with happiness, more awake than she knows what to do with, and she can still hear the last of the crowd being merry in the courtyard. 

Hans is standing by the window when she unlocks the door to his cell, his arms resting on the tiny windowsill, and he lets the surprise flick open across his face. 

"Elsa?" he says, as Elsa leans against the doorframe to look at him, her mouth soft and happy. "It's late."

"And I'm awake," she says, swaying a little as she moves her shoulders in something not quite a shrug, and his expression slips bemused and considering and pleased.

"Is there something -" he starts, then presses his lips together, rethinks, changes tact. "May I keep you company?"

Elsa smiles, sated and secret. "You may," she says, and pushes away from the door, stepping back into her chambers. 

The fire is down to just glowing embers, one log left that's more ash than wood, but the heat that rolls off it is still enough to make her skin prickle. Hans steps into place beside her, a couple of inches to her right.

She studies him out of the corner of her eye for a moment, before she twists her mouth to the side in consideration and turns to look at him properly, her eyes raking over the length of him.

"Take off your shirt," Elsa says, and his fingers fly straight to the tight buttons. "And everything else," she adds, and Hans smirks. She's feeling too wonderful to let it bother her - instead she steps away, closer to the fire and sits down on the floor, her legs stretched out in front and her hands behind her, her dress rucked up so it spills across her thighs. 

"Carry on," she says, when Hans pauses after throwing his shirt over the back of the armchair, looking at her. His fingers work through the fastening on his breeches and Elsa watches, biting her lip.

"What do you want?" he asks, when he's naked and dropping down to his knees in front of her. His fingers drift above her ankle, not quite touching. 

"Your mouth," she says, spreading her knees without a hint of a blush, and Hans's gaze rushes heated and longing over her. He doesn't wait, pushes his thighs wide as he kneels between her legs and gathers as much of her skirt as possible in one hand, pushing it up over her stomach.

He surges down, chin almost hitting the floor as his lips latch over her sex and she sighs happily, her head falling back as she lets her knees roll wider. Hans lets go of her dress to slip his hand under it, pressing against the bare skin of her stomach and she arches, gasping as he works hot and slick between her folds.

"You can touch yourself," she says, feeling flushed and generous, and maybe it's because she didn't quite make it a command that Hans disobeys - instead there's suddenly two fingers circling her entrance, teasingly dipping in to just the first knuckle as his tongue writes dead languages over her core.

Hans worships her slowly, intense and constant and overwhelming perfect as she drops her weight onto her elbows and watches the flutter of his eyelashes over his cheeks. Every breath sparks wet and molten and he keeps _groaning_ , the barest gravelly sounds that roll straight to the heat uncoiling under his tongue.

She comes gasping, high and breathless and sparkling as she clenches around his fingers, and when she's cohesive again she levers back up to lean on her hands to find Hans still kneeling between her legs. His cock stands aching and stiff, the head beaded like he's about to come but his hands are on his thighs, head tilted down and mouth bruised and looking up at her like he's hanging on her every breath.

Well. If he's not going to touch himself, neither is she. 

"Get on your back," Elsa says, and Hans can't quite hide his smile as he sits back, unfurls his legs so his knees tuck over where her ankles are splayed out across the floor and leans back on his arms.

Elsa moves to kneel between his spread thighs, and melts her dress away with a graceful turn of her hand. He's watching her, eyes lidded as she purses her lips and then crawls closer, swaying over his hips until her knees are pressed either side of his ribs and she puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down with the lightest touch so he's flat against the floor and gazing up at her.

"What do you want?" she breathes, feeling terrible and wicked and capable of anything, and watches the light burn behind his eyes. 

"You," Hans gasps, like he's only just remembered what part he's meant to be playing, and she looks down at her fingers splayed across his chest just to stop herself rolling her eyes. "Anything," he amends, and drifts his fingers against her calves, "Please, Elsa, just touch me," he begs, her name like a prayer and she can almost believe it. 

She arches over him and looks down between them, seeing his cock framed between her thighs before she strokes her hand down the plane of his chest, spreads her hand over tightly drawn stomach to hold him down and Hans groans, muscles flexing under her palm. She flicks her eyes up to his, her grin cold and wicked. There's a flicker of an expression, something like a frown as Hans searches her face.

"I have a better idea," she says, and lifts her hips so she's looming over him, holding her palm up flat in front of her. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and then ice swirls up from her skin, twisting until suddenly there's a replica of his cock sitting in the middle of her hand, perfect down to the web of veins and the thick ridge along the underside.

Her smile twists as Hans just opens his mouth and closes it again, and she doesn't give him the time to say anything before she's positioning it between her legs and teasing the head along her folds, making sure he's got a clear view before she pushes it inside her and throws her head back, moaning into breathlessness.

The performance is shameless, and the way Hans groans all anguish and desperation without her laying a finger on him is the most delightful thing. It sounds _real_. 

"Keep your eyes on me," she snaps, when Hans arches up underneath her and she draws her chin back down to find his eyes squeezed shut, head back and his weight on his shoulders. He groans like it's the most difficult thing in the world to open his eyes, but then he's biting his lip and watching the working of her hand, cheeks burning red and his whole body arched and long and urgently tense.

She holds the ice with the base pressing into her palm, rocking her hips down onto it as she meets each thrust. It's gloriously cold without being painful, the same stretch but none of the heat, none of the response she gets from Hans; different rather than better, and she's still all sweet and tingly from her first orgasm, every nerve ending sparking at the lightest touch.

"May I -" Hans begs, breaking into gasps as her ass brushes against his cock just once, and his hands smooth up her thighs. 

"No," she says, not caring if he meant to touch her or himself, and the pleading way he stares up at her is as almost as good as the ice thrusting inside her. "You're not allowed to come until I say," she commands, and he shudders beneath her, darting his gaze up to her mouth as he presses his hands flat against the floor. He's so _red_ , mouth and cheeks and shoulders and knuckles all pulsing with heat, his blood the only thing moving as he bites at his lip and watches her sink her ice inside herself with quicker and quicker thrusts.

When she comes again it's tighter, faster, coiling infinitely in the pool of her stomach and wetness drips over her hand as she arches up, running fingers through her hair and groaning loud and long, theatrical and slightly ridiculous but it leaves her shivering happily and Hans begging as he watches her, all _please_ and _let me_ and _anything_.

She pulls the ice out, and looks at it glittering in the firelight for a moment before she waves it away into the air. 

"Elsa," Hans breathes, like it's the only thing he can say, wrecked and open and so beautifully desperate. She twists her mouth to the side, not quite grinning down at him.

"We're almost done," she promises, the courtyard distantly silent and snow drifting quietly past the window again, and Hans whines.

She shifts back so she's arcing over his hips, wraps her hand around his cock and squeezes; holds for a moment as Hans begs unintelligibly to the air, reduced to nothing but the need to come. 

This is the most gloriously honest she's ever seen him.

"You may," she says, rubbing the pad of her thumb just under the head like she's seen him doing before, and he's coming in seconds - splashing hot over her thighs and her center and her hand, white and dripping as Hans groans, choked and thin.

Elsa arches back over him, resting her clean hand just above his shoulder and rubbing the fingertips of the other over his bottom lip, his mouth open and panting as he gazes, dreamy, up at her.

"Clean me up," she says, her hand slick with her wetness and splattered with his, and Hans swears and surges up to catch two fingers in his mouth. He sucks down to the knuckle and swipes his tongue across the webbing, then pulls back and licks across her palm, sucks at her ring finger and her little finger separately before he wraps strong fingers around her wrist to turn her hand over, licking across her knuckles. 

When he's mouthing at the ball of her thumb she pulls her hand away, and sits back in the space between his thighs. Hans blinks at her. "You're not done," she says, gesturing down at her thighs, and he scrambles out from under the arch of her legs to get to her faster. He licks over the curve of one thigh and then the other, swiping over the beads on her stomach and then back between her folds, cleaning her as thoroughly as she'll let him. 

She pushes him off when she's done, not interested in the first stirrings of arousal, and then glances down at the polished floor where it's dribbled off her skin into thin puddles. "That, too," she says, just to see if he will - and he does, swiping the flat of his tongue across the floor in short, thorough sweeps.

Her fingers curl under his chin when he's done, drawing his head up, just looking at him. The last time she held his face like this she'd slapped him. 

"Good boy," Elsa says, and Hans flushes.

She lets go of his jaw without hurting him, and stands up. Hans follows, a little slower, and when he's on his feet she picks up his clothes off the back of the armchair and hands them over. 

"Good night, Prince Hans," she says, grinning, and Hans fiddles with a button on his shirt for a long second before he looks at her, his smile small and careful and studied.

"Sleep well, Elsa," Hans says, and bows his head short and formal before walking over to his cell. She gives him a moment, feeling generous, before she follows to lock it behind him.

It occurs to her when she's lying in the darkness and looking up at the canopy, sleep lingering just beside her ear, that was the first time she had him because she wanted to, rather than because she needed it. She braces herself for the panic to come.

It doesn't. She doesn't quite know what to do with that.

 

A week later a letter from Corona arrives, inviting her to the christening of the new princess. In two month's time, it says. When the ice will have broken.

Oh, Elsa thinks. That's where the panic is.

 

Elsa makes a point of spending more time with Anna than locked up in her chamber with Hans - keeps it to long mornings or late nights, just the occasional day where she sighs over the mountains of work she has to do and swears she'll be done by dinner, and doesn't put too much thought into how much energy she's putting in to keep this looking effortless.

The weeks until the christening tick by alarmingly fast, and suddenly it's the day before they leave and she doesn't have enough _time_.

"Two weeks?" Hans says, glancing around the bedchamber - full of half-filled trunks and discarded dresses, a whirlwind of preparation that reminds her more of Anna when she takes a moment to consider the mess she's making. "Are you sure it's not for longer? Because, you know, I'd happily stay and take care of Arendelle for as long as you're gone-"

"Don't," Elsa says, holding up a hand as she double-checks that those were the books she meant to pack. 

"Too soon?" Hans asks, tilting his head to the side as he tries to catch her eye. She's beginning to regret insisting doing this herself, not least because half the reason is Hans; he spends so much time in her chamber that the thought of anyone else having the run of her rooms sends panic fluttering in her fingertips. The rest of it is that she has no idea what to _take_.

"I don't have time for you," Elsa says, not viciously, and somehow she's looking at him just as there's a flash of something genuine, and startled, in his face. "This," she amends, without quite knowing why. Hans's gaze burns into her for a moment before she looks away.

Elsa runs a hand through her hair, snatches up her half-written letter of instructions from the bedside table and glances at it once before letting it flutter down on to the table, picks at the cuff of a dress sitting in an open trunk, skims her eyes across the book Hans is holding open and ignoring as he watches her flit around her chamber. _It's just two weeks_ , says the small voice in her head that sounds so much like Anna. _Corona isn't that far._

"You'll be locked in the whole time," Elsa starts up again, because that was the whole point of this conversation before Hans derailed it, the entire reason he's out of the cell except she opened the door hours ago and got distracted by the spill of books sliding off the table. "Don't make me regret letting you stay up here instead of sending you down to the dungeon," she says, and Hans laughs. 

"I've survived worse," Hans shrugs, easy and unaffected, and Elsa looks at him. "But, I'll be thinking of you every day until you return," he says, and slips his mouth into a smirk, sarcastic and teasing, so she scowls at the thing that feels genuine instead of at the cloying sweetness. 

He keeps doing that - saying everything a lover would and then twisting away so she can't fault him for it without acting like she's rattled. She's trying to ignore it.

Elsa goes back to folding dresses into neat piles as Hans watches her, a light thud as he closes his book and sets it on the table. It's covered in papers, her letter writing things and piles of sea charts and log books - because knowing exactly what to expect is the only way she can convince herself to make the voyage. 

"Will Anna be left in charge, then?" Hans asks, pulling her out of her contemplation of a shawl she's never worn, running it through her fingers as she stares a little to the left of it. She's never even left the _country_ before.

"She's coming with me," Elsa says, blinking once before she carries on, and then glances over her shoulder when Hans doesn't say anything. He's looking down at his lap.

She still doesn't know how to read him, but she also has bigger things to worry about, so she continues pulling things out of her wardrobe that she hasn't worn in months and stuffing them into the trunks that Kai brought up. She has no idea if she'll even need them - her ice dresses have never faltered but suddenly the thought of relying on them in a strange, warm country has her itching with the need for something that can't _melt_.

_It's just two weeks._

The lid slams down and Hans is looking at her when she sinks into her chair opposite him. She forces herself to stay sitting up straight despite the ache in her neck, the heaviness of her shoulders, and instead pulls her papers towards her and concentrates on finishing her list of instructions for the council. 

Since the invitation arrived there has been one bright spot of happiness: despite how nervous and twisted up she is about _everything_ , the room is never colder than it should be in the early spring afternoon. The fire continues to crackle easily and there's no ice bursting under her feet or blizzards filling the air - she's got this. She really, genuinely has got this under control.

Something in her instructions catches her eye. She reads it again.

> Any person found in contravention of Arendelle's laws will be discharged until I return-

"Urgh," Elsa says, furiously crossing out _discharged_ and scribbling _detained_ above it. That's what she gets for trying to write this the previous night while still a little light-headed from Hans's mouth. There's a creak as Hans leans forward, magnetised to her annoyance.

"May I be of some use?" Hans says, and when she looks up he licks his lips, deliberate and obvious. 

"I have to concentrate," she says, not quite flushing, and looks back down at her papers. She presses her lips together when she realises that wasn't a no.

"You wouldn't even have to move," Hans says, lilting up at the end like a question, and when she glances at him again he just looks worried, head tilted a little to the side as a smile plays in the corner of his mouth. He's wearing an outfit she doesn't recognise today; dark grey waistcoat over a white shirt that's rolled up over his forearms, slack breeches and thick stockings over his bare feet.

Her eyes flick to the window, the sky glowing gold over blue as the afternoon melts away and it's practically almost evening, really; it wouldn't be that unusual to let him distract her. 

"Fine," Elsa says, after a pause, and there's a flash of an expression so _pleased_ that for a moment she seriously considers changing her mind.

It's gone in a second as Hans pushes his chair back and, to her surprise, disappears straight under the table - the sound of him crawling towards her, the slow drag of his shins against the wood and the rustle of fabric with every shift, is enough to set her tingling and interested, and she rests her chin on her hand. A couple of seconds later there's the familiar touch of his hand against her knee, fingertips fanning over the joint as he waits for her to spread her legs.

Elsa pushes away her papers and draws her knees apart, her dress spilling over her thighs as she wraps her ankles around the front chair legs. The top of her feet press against the back of the wood and there's a lick of warm air as Hans nudges the rest of her skirts up and out of the way, his hands feverishly hot against her skin.

The edge of the chair digs into the curve of her thighs. Elsa cants her hips so she's open and angled towards him, and for once she doesn't grab him by the hair - just props her other hand under her chin and breathes out long and pleased when there's the slide of his mouth along her thigh. He's getting so good at that - knowing exactly what she wants, trailing warmth up her skin when she's only mildly interested and diving between her thighs when she's aching for it, and by the time he's mouthing across her core she's wet and so ready for the press of his mouth.

Hans soaks a rough kiss to her pressure point and then his tongue is gliding long, glorious swathes against her sensitive skin, all intense pressure and slick heat, and Elsa didn't realise how much she enjoyed watching him until suddenly she can't. Both of his hands are curled over her thighs, not doing anything other than proving they're not on him.

She looks down at the wood grain to picture him beneath it, on his knees and tucked under the table like a pet, and suddenly a distant fluttering of a thought snaps into focus: she really likes him like this. Submissive and beholden to her, obeying her because he _wants_ to, and the fact that he's doing it all without so much as a word or a touch from her - apparently he doesn't have to be in pain for the idea of him to spark warm and gorgeous.

Her toes curl and she gasps as there's his tongue flicking around that tight cluster of nerves, his hands sliding up her legs so the whole of his forearms are resting on her thighs, and the curve of the table leg is digging in just above her knee as his thumb traces patterns across her skin. He's perfectly relentless, his tongue working endlessly and those soft moans vibrating straight to her core until she comes, sweet and gasping.

Hans lingers. Presses another kiss to her swollen folds and works his tongue inside like he's drinking her in, savouring her, and Elsa gasps his name like a warning but it comes out so breathless she scratches her nails across the wood; she's never _moaned_ his name before and she had no plans on starting, but then Hans surges forward like she's given him everything and she dissolves into a groan.

He doesn't stop until she climaxes again, both hands wrapped around the edge of the table as she throws her head back and bites her lip to stop herself making another sound.

 _It's just two weeks,_ she tells herself, and it feels like more of a promise. They're leaving tomorrow morning, the ship loaded and ready except for the last of her personal things, and her chamber continues to be full of things she needs to finish doing but everything feels a little less frantic, a little softer, as Hans pulls away with a rush of warm air and the soft scratch of his cheek against her skin. 

She lets him stay out until after dinner, for no other reason than wanting his company (not - not that she will ever admit that. But the cadence of his voice has become something of a soothing fixed point when she needs it) and when she finally decides it's time to retire Hans lingers, fiddling with the collar of a dress in the last open trunk. 

He drops it when he notices her staring. "I was just..." he starts, and twists his mouth to the side as he brings both hands up in the air, surrender and distraction. It's weak, for him. Too obvious in wanting her attention.

Still. "What?" Elsa asks, standing by the open door to the cell as she loosely folds her arms across her chest, considering him. It's getting late but this is the last time she'll see him in a while, the last chance he'll get to leave an impression. She can wait.

Hans ducks his head for a moment, then glances up with the kind of half-smile that sets her teeth on edge. He crosses the room in a few short steps and stops in the doorway, holds one arm across his chest and bows from the waist.

"Elsa. It's been an honour to have your company," he says, and just as she's frowning at the choice of words, he adds, softly, "I'll miss you." She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and he takes the chance to catch up her hand, wrapping her fingers over the join of his thumb and bring it up to his lips, pressing a kiss over the back of her knuckles. Leaves a smudge of wetness on her skin that tingles cold.

"Truly," he says, and Elsa stares at him, eyes blazing. "Your company is infinitely superior to my own."

"Let go of my hand," Elsa says, very calmly. He lets it drop and she resists the urge to wipe it against her dress, suddenly feeling childish and off-balance, the doorframe digging into her back.

For a moment he just looks at her, a stretch in the corner of his mouth that she can't decipher, and then he side-steps into the cell and clasps his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. "Goodnight, Elsa. See you in two weeks," he says, and there's an odd, sing-song lilt to his voice.

"Goodbye," Elsa says, mouth twisted to the side, and Hans catches his bottom lip between his teeth as she steps back and shuts the door between them.

_It's just two weeks._


	9. accepting the risk of absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [this quote from The Little Prince](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/918994-of-course-i-ll-hurt-you-of-course-you-ll-hurt-me) (it's also the source of chapter one's title, and the reason this whole fic was very nearly called 'accepting the risk'. it's just _perfect_.)
> 
> thank you _so much_ for the incredibly lovely comments, they make me so giddy and I cannot thank you enough. you are all diamonds  <333

"This is going to be the best trip _ever_ ," Anna says, looping her arm through the crook of Elsa's elbow, and Elsa tears her eyes away from the ship, fixing her smile into something less shaky as Anna grins at her. The dock creaks under their feet as the last of the luggage is hauled aboard.

Anna nudges her arm. "Hey. Remember our promise? About not bottling things up anymore?" Anna says, and Elsa chews on her lip for a second before the thought that won't stop bouncing around her head tumbles out. 

"You haven't thought about how... how this was the journey that -?" Elsa starts, falters, and Anna clutches her arm a little tighter.

"Of course I have," Anna says, and when Elsa glances her she's staring down at the boards under her feet, scrubbing her toes against the grain. "But I've got you with me," Anna says after a moment, looking up with eyes a touch too bright but her smile is steady. Elsa deflates, anchored by the weight of Anna tucked close against her side.

"Besides," Anna says, and the way her smile suddenly blooms across her face is all the warning Elsa gets before Anna is tugging on her hand, spinning them around and towards the ship. "If the water gets rough you'll just freeze it, right? We'll be fine!"

"Anna, that's not really -" Elsa sighs through her smile, letting herself be pulled along.

"Come on!" Anna calls, bouncing away and up the gangplank, her winter cloak flying out behind her, and their fingers slide when Elsa pauses at the bottom rung. Anna looks back, and then her gaze drifts over Elsa's shoulder and she tightens her grip on Elsa's hand.

"Your Majesty?" says a voice behind her, and Elsa rocks back on her heel as she turns, her smile holding she finds her Guard Captain, Johann, looking at her. He blinks once before inclining his head in greeting.

"Is there something wrong?" Elsa says, squeezing Anna's hand once before she lets go, clasping her fingers in front of her.

"Prince Hans," he says, and her chest seizes. "No! My apologies, I mean - about Prince Hans. With your majesty's permission we were hoping - for emergencies only, of course - if you could leave us a key?"

"Oh," Elsa says, and then, "Yes, of course." She bites her lip, looking down at her hands. "Well considered." When she glances back Anna's up on deck, out of earshot and talking to the captain.

The boat creaks behind her, the soft lull of the waves lapping against the hull. Seagulls squawk overhead. "Your Majesty?" the Guard Captain prompts, and Elsa lifts her chin sharply. 

"Of course," she repeats, stronger, and holds up her hand to make the ice swirl over her palm, wraps her fingers around the key when it drops into her hand. They both look at it for a second, then Elsa takes a breath, lets it out sharply and holds the key out for him to take. "For emergencies only."

The tightening of his lips is the closest he gets to a roll of his eyes, unfailingly serious in all things, but she sees it anyway and tries not to laugh as he presses the key in his clenched hand to his chest. "I will not let it out of my sight. And - have a safe journey, Your Majesty," he says, eyes softening, and the smile spreads across her cheeks anyway. He leaves, bowing swiftly before turning on his heel.

"Elsa!" Anna calls, leaning over the side of the ship. "They're going to let me steer!"

"Absolutely not," Elsa says, and places a foot on the gangplank. A moment later and Anna's there to catch up her hand, and pull her the rest of the way.

 

The first day of sailing is blissfully uneventful, the breeze stiff and the sea easy as they leave the mountains of Arendelle behind them, and Anna is only allowed to take the wheel when they're a clear half mile away from the shore. She lasts ten minutes before realising how dull staring at the horizon is; abandons her post to join Elsa at the front, turning her face up to catch the splash of the waves breaking against the bow.

A cold wind draws in with the night, and their formal dinner with the Captain is cut short when the ship comes down hard over a swell and Elsa jumps so hard she freezes the table. 

"This is perfectly normal, Your Majesty," the Captain insists, and she looks so calm that Elsa can almost convince herself to believe her. They make their way up onto the deck, the Captain almost feline in her ability to hold her balance as the waves crash against the hull, and the ship rocks from side to side as they cut across the swells. Anna clutches at Elsa's arm tighter as the wind tugs at her hair, wisps of it pulling loose and catching sharp across her cheeks.

"I'm fine," Anna insists, when Elsa nudges her, and then suddenly runs across the deck to clutch at the side, coughing as she leans over like she's trying to get her head as far out as possible. "Still fine!" she calls back over her shoulder. "Nothing came up!"

None of the crew seem even slightly worried, and even Anna stays on deck to feel the salt spray in the air as she swears she won't be ill, grin more happy than shaky, but still - Elsa makes Anna swear to go inside soon and retreats to her cabin at the next jolting roll.

She perches on the edge of her bed and clenches her lips together, pushes her hair out of her face before she draws her arms tight around her chest and looks around the cabin in a desperate hope of distraction. There's mostly just wood.

Her stomach lurches with the ship and Elsa curls a hand over her belly and slides over to the trunk at the end of her bed, flinging open the lid and rummaging through for her sleepwear. She slings a few dresses over her arm, and then there's the flutter of something papery hitting the ground.

Elsa stops, frowns, scans the room. There's a small, folded page on the floor of the cabin, a foot to her right, unsealed and without a mark. When she picks it up and turns it over there's her first name, scrawled across the paper.

She stares at it for a moment, and then drops the dresses back into the trunk and slowly, carefully, unfolds it to find a letter addressed to her, and at first she skims it so quickly the only thing that registers is Hans's name, signed with such a flourish that the underline slips off the edge of the page.

" _What_ ," she hisses, her heart hammering as she drops the letter and starts tearing through the trunk, shaking out dresses and cloaks and nightgowns as snowflakes start to flutter down from the ceiling. When she reaches the bottom there's nothing, nothing she didn't put there herself and she has _no idea_ how it got in there, and now the floor is covered in clothes and for the frantic second it takes to find the letter again she almost thinks she must have imagined it, because he couldn't have _possibly_ -

She finds it pinned under her hairbrush. She snatches it up and throws herself to perch on the edge of the bed again, forces herself to take a breath, and begins to read:

> My dear Elsa,
> 
> When you are done panicking -

Elsa cries out and slams both hands down onto the bunk, the letter crumpling under her fingers. Takes a breath, huffs it out, and then tries to smooth the paper out as quickly as possible. Tries again.

> When you are done panicking, please let me apologise for the distress finding this letter must have caused you, but the thought of your face as you read this will be my only happiness until I can see it in person again. I can only give the truth - the idea of being without you for so long drove me half-mad with the need to give you some token to take with you. As I write this I'm watching you fill trunks with dresses you won't wear and wishing there was space for me alongside them.
> 
> These last few months have, unexpectedly, been the happiest of my life. You are more than I could have ever dreamed of, and although this was never how I imagined spending my time in Arendelle it has been, I must admit, infinitely more interesting. I am most grateful for the kindness you have shown me, and the intimacy in which you have allowed me to know you. It is more than I deserve, but I believe that speaks more of your own virtue than to the lack of mine. 
> 
> I will count the days until your return, and dream of you every night.
> 
> I am  
>  Yours, truly and completely,  
>  Hans Westergaard
> 
> p.s. I would promise this is the only letter I have written, the only words of mine that have left your chambers since you placed me there, but I also know you would not believe me. As such, I have hidden another letter somewhere in your luggage, just so you'll have a reward at the end of your inevitable searching.

Elsa looks up, staring blankly until she realises the cabin still lightly snowing, and grasps at the air until it stops. Something creaks as the boat gently tips from side to side.

"What the _hell_ ," she says, and reads it again. His handwriting is rougher than she would have thought, spiky and flourished, and there are thick creases at odd angles across the page that couldn't have been from her - like it's been hastily folded and unfolded repeatedly. 

She reads it another time, and the postscript finally sinks in. Shoving the first letter under her pillow for safe keeping, she drops to her knees in front of the chest again and runs her hands over the inside, investigating every crevice before she starts to pick up her scattered things and thoroughly check them, every crease and seam and fold, before she puts it back in the trunk.

There's nothing. The waves slap against the side of the ship and she stares at the closed lid for a long moment before she remembers the other trunk that was put in her cabin, tucked out of the way behind the door. She tears through that slower, more considered, and makes sure she works her fingers into every fissure in the wood just in case, but still - there's nothing she didn't put there herself.

The third trunk is down in the hold, and she's just debating with herself if it's worth creeping down there for a fancy that might not even exist as she starts to pull the lid of the second chest shut, the metal binding cold against her palm as she levers it towards her, when she notices something tucked under the iron work inside it.

Her nails scrabble against the wood as she claws it out. The lid drops down with a thunk and she doesn't bother getting comfortable on the bed again before she unrolls the tiny scroll, one end crumpled and the top edge torn, like it's been ripped off something larger.

 _You are everything I have ever wanted_ , it says, in the same handwriting as the first. 

That's it, no signature or symbols or anything else written on the back. Just that.

Elsa sits back on her heels, and huffs out a breath. It suddenly seems silly, but she'd expected something - more, somehow. More revealing, perhaps, but at least she doesn't doubt the honesty of this one. She's the unmarried female monarch of an entire kingdom - of course she's everything he wants.

She glances at the paper one more time, frowning, before she folds it neatly in the middle and sits on the edge of her bed. 

There's something inherently untrustworthy about every word that comes from Hans, and this is just _reckless_. She must be missing something, some point to this, but even as she digs the letter out again and pummels every word until it's tattooed over her cortex her main thought is that (despite, maybe, wanting -) she doesn't believe a word of it.

Hans lies, she tells herself like a mantra, and her thoughts slip; he can genuinely brighten her day if he puts his mind to it, decides that's the best plan of the hour, but so often she can see the purpose behind every action, the manipulation behind every touch and smile and careful question when it's directed at her instead of shuttered away. It's only when she's reduced him to nothing but the need to come, when he's raw and desperate and _begging_ , that she believes every inch of him.

She grits her teeth, tells herself to focus, but she hasn't the faintest idea what to do with this.

By the time she remembers she wanted her nightgown the ship's bell is ringing out, slow and constant as fog rolls in, and as she climbs into bed her thoughts are too scattered to find space to worry about that. She blows out the lights, and the deep toll of the bell lulls her to sleep in the pitch black darkness.

They reach Corona in a matter of days. Elsa makes a point of not thinking about Hans from the moment she steps off the ship, because otherwise she's not going to be able to concentrate on anything at all.


	10. And I want these words to make things right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Thnks Fr Th Mmrs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ6isKds2sE), because I finally gave in to my natural instinct to use bandom lyrics as titles.
> 
> thank you for being so nice about the terribly short chapter last time! I hope this one starts a way towards making up for it, because it is entirely this scene's fault for getting so long and demanding to be a chapter in its own right.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: oh boy. The kink gets heavier than usual, but it's very clearly signposted.

"How was Corona?" Kristoff asks, as they step on to Arendelle's docks. 

"Beautiful," Elsa says, just as Anna exclaims, "There was this _horse_ ," and then Anna sweeps herself up in Kristoff's arms and is too busy kissing him to continue.

Elsa focuses on watching the ship be unloaded, crates hauled onto the docks and carted off. They made good time on the way home, despite the storm they had to cross in their last night at sea ("It'll pass before you know it, Your Majesty," the Captain had said, and Elsa had forced herself to stay on deck to prove she believed her) and the late afternoon sun is surprisingly warm on the back of Elsa's neck.

"See you at dinner!" Anna calls behind her, and when Elsa turns she's hurtling off with her hand clutched over Kristoff's.

Two weeks of oppressing every thought about Hans suddenly catches up with her. 

She tells herself she's in no rush to see him - that surely he's fine, that nothing could possibly have happened, and if it had she would know by now. Convinces herself that there is nothing to be gained from showing any kind of eagerness in getting to her chambers. Takes every step measured and regal and smiles at everyone she passes, and as soon as she's in the quiet of the castle she picks up the skirt of her dress and hurries up the staircase.

She pauses at her chamber door - takes a breath, runs a hand over her hair, sets her shoulders back. Reminds herself that she lasted two weeks without release perfectly well, and that she's not going to let him anywhere near her until he explains the letter. Presses her hand against the door. Steps inside.

The first thing she sees is the cell door, wide open and empty. 

Elsa sucks in a breath, and roars for the guards.

 

"I heard shouting!" Anna calls from the other end of the corridor, pulling up the shoulder of her dress as she hurries down towards where Elsa is standing with Kai and three red-faced guards. Elsa looks at her. One braid is half way to undone. "What? I'm here. What's happened?"

"Prince Hans is not where her majesty left him," Kai says, and Elsa exhales sharply.

Anna looks between them, and opens her mouth.

"He's in the dungeons," Elsa cuts in. "He tried to escape while I - while we were gone."

Anna closes her mouth, thinks for a moment, opens it again. "Do you want me to punch him again? Because I will. I totally will."

"It's okay, Anna," Elsa sighs, and ducks her head for a moment. When she lifts her chin again her face is set and calm, and when she shifts her weight onto her right foot Anna is there in an instant, curling her hand around Elsa's arm. 

"I'll see him now," Elsa says, and Kai nods and turns to lead the way. The guards fall into step behind them.

"It's not like he's going anywhere," Anna says, jostling Elsa's arm as she shrugs. "We could leave him another day, or two, or maybe ten -"

" _Now_ ," Elsa insists, and goes to slip her arm away from Anna's. "I'll see you later," she says, like a promise, like seeing Anna is the reward she'll get after the trial of dealing with whatever is waiting for her in the cells.

"Hey," Anna says, sharp, and pulls Elsa up short. "I'm coming with you."

"You really don't have to -" Elsa says, as Kai looks over his shoulder at the pair of them. Anna links their arms forcibly together again.

"Yes, I do. I was the one who insisted we both go to Corona," she says, and cuts across Elsa when she tries to protest. "Besides, it's been far too long since I've seen him. He might have forgotten me," Anna says, and pulls them forward so suddenly that Kai has to jog a few paces to stay ahead.

He leads them down through the castle and into the cells, heading further into the dungeons than she's ever been before. They descend another flight of steps before following him down another narrow corridor - she and Anna rarely played down here when they were small (more interested in the gardens, and secret passageways, and everything Elsa could create) but even then they stayed near the stairs, daring each other to see who could creep furthest into the shadows before their own shrieking laughter sent them hurtling back to each other.

It seems to get colder and darker and more dank with every step, her shoes tapping against old stone that's sucking the moisture from the deep soil beneath it. Anna stays tucked up close by her side, slipping her hand down from the crook of Elsa's elbow so she can link their fingers together and clutch Elsa's arm with her other hand.

They come to a stop at a door standing alone at the end of a short corridor, with a single lantern on a hook hanging beside it. Kai pulls a large, solid key out from the inside of his jacket and fits it into the lock, twists it until there's a loud click and the door swings open half an inch, heavy and silent.

"You Majesty..." one of the guards says, and the hesitation makes her look at him. "We brought this from the stables, just - just in case you wanted us to use it," he says, offering her something, and when she looks down at his hands there's a riding crop laid across his gloves.

Her mouth is suddenly very dry. She licks her lips, swallows. "That won't be necessary," she says, and the guard nods quickly like he expected that and steps away. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him hang it up on a keyhook halfway down the corridor.

"Wait here, Your Majesty. We need to secure the prisoner first," another says, and Elsa almost tells him that won't be necessarily but then Anna's fingers clutch tighter against her skin, eyes wide and fixed on the half-open cell door. Elsa keeps her lips pressed together.

All three guards go in, one taking the lantern by the door and another already lowering his spear. There's a rattle of chains, a scuffle of boots against stone but no voices, no protests, and the weight in Elsa's chest sinks sharply down. 

"He's ready, Your Majesty," the last guard out of the cell says, bringing the light back with him. He hands it to Anna, and Elsa nods her thanks, tight-lipped and cold.

"You may go," she says, to all of them - catches Kai's eye and he nods, bows neatly and leaves, and after a wavering pause the guards follow him. The door hangs half-open and empty, showing nothing but high walls and stonework beyond it.

"Ready?" Anna asks, holding up the lantern and Elsa looks at her, forcing her smile up into something a little more secure as her eyes follow the line of Anna's unravelling braid, trailing down over her chest. She reaches up and flicks it over Anna's shoulder.

"Of course," Elsa says, and guides them through the door.

It's colder still, no windows and darkness lingering in every corner, and Hans is standing in the middle of the cell, in his white shirt and pale breeches and knee-high boots, his arms stretching high above his head - chained, she suddenly realises, to a long hook that hangs down from the ceiling, latched onto the manacles fixed between his wrists. The only light comes from the lantern Anna holds, and in the shifting shadows it takes Elsa a moment to notice the muzzle over his mouth.

Elsa's shoulders sink down, lifts her chin a little higher. His eyes are blazing with fury, but he's _okay_. 

"That's an improvement," Anna says, pressing closer, and Elsa is suddenly, desperately glad she's there. 

"I can't exactly interrogate him like this," Elsa hisses, trying to keep her voice low but it bounces around the cell, impossibly loud in the dominating silence.

"Interrogate? I assumed you were just gonna -" Anna says, and lets go of her hand so she can wave her fingers in a way Elsa assumes means _use her ice powers_. 

She glances at Hans, and he looks back; the part of his face she can see is suddenly so carefully blank and smooth it must _ache_.

"Wait here," Elsa says, to Anna, not taking her eyes off Hans, and starts a slow walk around him. She keeps an equal distance between the walls and Hans until she's behind him, almost lost in his shadow. 

Anna lifts the lantern up a little higher, folds her free arm cross her waist and leans back against the wall - and then peels herself away again with a grimace. The crank for raising the hook is just next to her elbow. She eyes it speculatively for a moment.

Elsa steps closer and Hans drops his chin down to his chest, limp and vulnerable but it just means she has to move even closer to reach up and find the fastening of the muzzle. She can feel the heat radiating off him as his hair slips under her fingertips. She's too annoyed, too focused to think about what she could do with him like this. Does _not_ think about the riding crop, about the noises he would make if she struck him with it, the gasps and the _moans_ -

The buckle comes loose under her quick fingers and she slinks around to the front of him to pull it off, stupidly close. He catches her eye, and Elsa takes two steps back so quickly she almost stumbles.

"Oh, thank goodness," Hans starts, and then winces, works his jaw a few times to loosen it up. There's a pop as he pulls a face so ridiculous he looks nothing but harmless despite the week's worth of beard growth, guileless and oblivious to his audience, and Elsa almost sighs in relief at the familiar sight of him so deliberately trying to play her.

"There's been a terrible mistake, you must tell them to let me go - " Hans starts when his jaw is working properly, and Anna snorts. He smiles like he's only just remembering how the muscles around his mouth work. 

"Can you believe this?" Anna says, waving the lantern as Elsa steps into place beside her again, holding the muzzle in both hands.

"Not a word," Elsa says, and stares down at the hard leather clutched between her fingers when she realises how _fond_ that sounded.

"Whatever they said, I swear I was only coming down to the docks to greet you," he says, blinking at Anna as Elsa tells herself to _concentrate_. Digs down looking for the fury that must be there but instead finds something more like disappointment, sickly and unpleasant.

"You tried to escape a week ago," Elsa says, snapping back, and Anna laughs.

"I must have counted the days wrong," Hans says, and then sighs, drops his chin to his chest again. He looks pained when he drags it slowly back up again. "If you're here to punish me, please - just do it. I can't take the suspense much longer," he says, and swings his weight to the side so the chains above him clink together.

Anna snorts, and then sucks in her cheeks, schools her face into a frown and glares at him. "Really? You're not even a little bit sorry? After everything?"

"I promise I won't do it again."

Elsa watches the pair of them, and it occurs to her that these are the two people she's closest to in the world. The muzzle slips between her fingers and she fumbles to catch it, just snagging it up before either of them notice. She carefully sets it down by the door, out of the way, and links her fingers in front of her.

"I'm only here to make sure _you_ ," Anna says, jabbing a finger towards Hans, "are properly punished, and that _she_ " Anna continues, and prods her finger into Elsa's side, ignoring the way Elsa jerks in response, "doesn't do something stupidly nice, like pardon you."

"I _am_ ," Hans says, as Elsa gasps, "I _wouldn't_."

"Hmph," Anna says, and crosses her arms as dramatically as she can while still holding the lantern. The light swings, sending half the cell into sharp darkness.

"I can handle this, Anna," Elsa says, quiet in the silence, and Anna looks at her. Her smile softens, blooms across her face, and Elsa can't help but mirror it. 

"I know you can," she says, and touches Elsa's arm, slips her fingers down to her wrist and picks up her hand to press the lantern handle into it. "I really just wanted to check he still sucked as much as I remember before I go find Kristoff," she stage-whispers, leaning close, and pecks Elsa on the cheek before she steps past her to the doorway.

"I'll leave you to, you know," Anna says, doing the same finger waggle that meant _ice powers_ , but heat suddenly floods up Elsa's neck as Anna slips out the door.

Her footsteps tap away down the corridor, and when Elsa finally turns her gaze on Hans there's a new brightness in his eyes, like a switch has been flipped. 

"Elsa. It is so good to see you," Hans breathes, and she locks her knees. She doesn't bother with the obvious question - _of course_ he tried to escape at the first opportunity. She was just stupid in assuming that she had everything covered, that the guards knew well enough to not trust a single word or action or sound from his cell (and that, after everything, he _wouldn't_ \- )

"The letter," Elsa says, not quite a question but Hans answers anyway. 

"I thought it was goodbye," Hans shrugs as best he can with his arms chained above him. "It would be rude to leave without saying _something_ ," he says, and glances up. His smirk is blinding and short-lived, sunlight on a knife edge.

"So it was just a joke," she says, and Hans tips his head to the side.

"Most of it," he admits, holding her gaze for a second before looking away, his eyes tracing the cracks in the paving stones. "I didn't imagine I would have to justify it."

Elsa sighs, and sets the lantern down on the floor by the doorway. The door is coarse and almost slimy under her palm as she pushes at the wood until it's almost shut, and when she turns back Hans is - as always - watching her. 

"How have they been treating you?" she asks, and Hans flicks his eyes up the hook he's hanging by. Her gaze follows, and frowns when she notices the bandage wrapped around his left hand for the first time.

"Apparently I am a danger to Arendelle. Tales of my monstrous nature have grown wildly since you locked me away," he says, and his mouth becomes nothing but insincerity, twisted all wrong in the corners. "Are you here to punish me, Elsa?"

 _I don't know_ would be the honest answer. 

"You didn't kill anyone," she says, suddenly, and surprise flicks across his face. "During your escape attempt. I hear you got hold of a sword but still you didn't cut down a single person."

"I knew you would find it unforgivable."

Elsa frowns. "You didn't think you would ever see me again."

"I had hoped you would still think of me fondly," Hans says, and looks at her with such raw longing that Elsa is the first to look away. She glances around the cell, imagines movement in the shadows and wonders what on earth is she going to do, because every reasonable response to this involves never letting him near her again. That's what she _should_ do. 

"Punish me," he says, and she snaps her gaze back to him, flicks her eyes over the length of him like he's wearing his secrets in the angle of his bones.

" _Why_?" she asks. Doesn't raise her voice, but it rings clear as a bell.

"Because you want to," Hans says, all challenge, and Elsa tsks and turns away. Takes a step towards the door so he can't see the way her fingers are twisting together. "Because _I_ want you to," he amends, quiet and weak, and there's that familiar stirring between her legs at the sound of him so desperately needy. She bites down on it. 

There's every reason why she shouldn't. She doesn't trust a word out of his mouth. The guiding light of this thing between them is that Hans does not get what he wants, because even though he hides the reasons under so many layers of wide eyes and slow glances she knows it's there, somewhere, and still she can so rarely see it.

The thing is, she really rather wants it too. For a moment she lets herself imagine it - him taut and begging for something, more or less or _her_ , and the rush of heat from throat to thigh is everything. She turns back, and considers him. "Tell me something honestly," Elsa says, and watches the light flash behind his eyes, the twitch-tightening of his eyelids as he tries to read her. "Why?"

There's just silence for a moment, the true, deep silence you get this far into the ground, and Elsa almost thinks he's not going to answer as he ducks his head; pushes her shoulders back and prepares herself to turn around and head back to her chambers and quietly panic about what a queen is actually _supposed_ to with a dangerous prisoner.

"Because it's the only way you'll touch me again," Hans says, at last, and looks up at her after a long second. In the dim, golden light he looks nothing but sincere. 

Elsa takes a step forward, then another. She reaches up and takes his chin between her fingers nails first, accidentally brushes her thumb over the corner of his mouth and his eyes flutter shut, baring his neck as he tilts his head into it. He tries to chase as she pulls her hand away, straining against the chains.

" _Hit me_ ," he begs, blinking down at her, and warmth starts to pool just above her core.

"Give me a reason," Elsa says, and Hans doesn't hesitate.

"I deserve it. Your guards are so useless I got all the way to the front gate without needing to land a mortal blow. My only regret while doing it was that I wouldn't get to see your face as you realised I was go-"

Elsa draws her hand back at _regret_ and lands on _gone_ , slapping her open palm across his cheek so hard he lists to the left, his boots scuffling against floor. He gasps, flogged and guttural as his breath comes quick and heavy. Her palm tingles until it starts to sting.

He blinks a few times as he slides his jaw from one side to the other, and when he looks up with his cheek already reddening and his eyes slightly watery Elsa suddenly needs _more_.

His cheek is burning hot against her palm when she reaches up again, stubble scratching the base of her thumb and Hans presses into it, mouth falling open as he looks at her with heavy-lidded eyes. When her thumb strokes the edge of his bottom lip Hans twists his head and catches it, sucking at the pad as his eyes close entirely until Elsa pulls away with a slick pop. She links her fingers in front of her, so tightly she can feel her bones grinding.

"What do you deserve?" she asks, soft and quiet like she's just thinking out loud but his eyes flash, fix on hers. "My hand or the crop?"

"The crop," he says, breathless and so quickly that Elsa just looks at him for a second, wondering if he really knows about it, if the guards presented it to him like a threat of her arrival before she was even back in Arendelle - and then her mouth twists to the side and she turns on her heel, strides out of the cell.

She comes back holding the riding crop in one hand as she locks the door behind her, leaves the key in and then presses her hand just above the metal. Ice spills out from under her palm; blooming across the wood and over the stones and growing as she picks up the lantern and turns to face Hans, and by the time she's standing in front of him again it's a foot thick and coating half the cell, rushing along the walls until it is out of his sight.

"Anyone would think you're trying to keep a secret," Hans says, too hushed to be cutting as he watches in open admiration, and his expression doesn't change as he meets her eye. Elsa holds it, doesn't respond, but there's a smile lingering behind her teeth as she sets the lantern down a few feet to the side and her ice catches up the light, sends it scattering around the cell as the frost meets in the middle of the back wall and seals seamlessly together. 

It's almost dazzlingly bright after the thick darkness, suddenly cold and clean and entirely hers, and Hans is still squinting against the light when Elsa brushes her hand across his shoulder. The ice swirls up his arms and spills down his chest, running off the curve of his back as it takes just his shirt and Hans's breath catches, shivers happily as Elsa trails the tips of her fingers around his ribs, moving behind him until she's just out of sight.

She forces herself to take it slow. This is _punishment_ , not - not whatever it usually is between them, and she's already been too indulgent in that ridiculous urge to touch him. His skin glows in the light, dusted with freckles and a few old, faint scars; a thin line that slashes across the top of his arm and nicks the top of his chest, neat and clean like the tip of a sword; a pale scratch that runs from the base of his ribs around to the front, twisted like a lash; and above that a welt over his shoulder blade that's so old it's almost too faint to see, just picked out by the shine on scar tissue.

The first touch of the crop against his skin is achingly soft but it still makes him flinch; barely touching him as she runs it over the length of his back and then up again, following the curve of his spine until he relaxes again and a thought occurs. 

"How many times?" Elsa asks, tapping the crop lightly below his shoulders, quietly delighting in the way his stomach jumps. Tells herself to control it.

"As many as you think I deserve," he says, slightly strangled, but Elsa purses her lips.

"This what _you_ want," she reminds them both. "How many," she demands, and taps the crop a little lower.

Hans's breath comes loud and heavy in the silence. "Ten," he says, after a moment, and Elsa twists her mouth to the side, hides her smile in the scattered shadows.

"Count them for me," she says, just so she can hear his voice breaking, and brings the crop down across the middle of his ribs so hard he staggers forward half a step, arching away from his toes to his wrists.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps, fists clenching, and then, " _One_."

The next strike cracks down an inch higher than the first, red-white stripes cutting across his back and Hans gasps out, "Two." She pulls back a little on the third, biting her lip because there's heat pooling between her legs already and she barely knows what she's doing; teasing with a light slap that leaves him shuddering as his head drops down to his chest, the, "Three," coming out breathy and quiet. 

On the fourth she angles it so the leather at the end slaps down with a final sting, catching the start of his " _Four_ " and spinning it into a shout.

On five she brings the crop down across the thin lines striping up his back and there's a breathy hesitation between the strike and Hans's voice, like he had to draw himself together; so she barely gives him time to breathe before six lands in the same place and then strikes harder on seven, just below the knot of his shoulders and he jerks away, spine curving like a bow.

"If you pull away again I'll make you start from the beginning," she says (for a moment surprised by how strong her voice is, because inside she's molten and shaking, gripping the crop so tightly her fingers are going numb, and it's quite possible she didn't think this through -) and Hans lets out a shuddery breath and then draws his head up so he can nod clearly.

He stutters on eight but stands locked still as she hits the untouched skin a few inches further down his ribs, the word more moan than sense on nine as she hits the same spot. On ten she cracks the length of it across the reddening bruises left by the first strikes and the skin breaks; Hans throws his head back and chokes out the word like it's everything, all he has left - then his head drops down again, his weight heavy across his arms.

Elsa's chest is heaving. She switches the crop to the other hand and flexes her fingers until they're a little less stiff, stares at the floor and keeps her breathing as quiet as possible until it starts to level out, because she's a breath away from forgetting everything and just letting herself have him.

The leather creaks in her hand as she grips it tighter. The warmth in her core is pulsing and she _wants_ \- wants to let him drop to his knees and let everything be the way it was two weeks ago, not easy or uncomplicated but at least it _worked_. Of course she can't.

Hans just hangs there, shoulders shifting with every ragged breath and his skin shines in the scattered light, slick with sweat even in the cold of the dungeon. She forces herself to look; each hit is a pale stripe neatly outlined in red, angled and overlapping and blood dotted across like morse code where the skin has broken, trickling sluggishly. She catches her hand up, fingers outstretched, and snatches it back before she touches him.

There's a sound from the front, small and wet and when Elsa darts around to face him she finds his eyes closed and his lip caught between his teeth, his prick trapped achingly hard under his breeches. He lifts his head, eyes blown wide as they find hers, and the only reason Elsa can find for why she reaches down and cups his cock through his breeches is the irresistible rush of heat that burns through her at the sight of him so _needy_.

Hans surges forward, eyes fixed on her mouth but she turns her head away and his face ends up buried in her neck, week-long stubble scratching against her skin as he mouths sloppily at the curve of her throat, and she can feel every point where his skin touches hers as she squeezes once and he comes, shuddering into her palm - dampness spreads across the thin fabric as his prick pulses hot and tight against her hand, his gasping whimper soaking into her skin, warmth flooding up into her cheeks.

The crop hits the floor a few feet away with a clatter. There's a murmur that might be thank you, might be her name, his breath searing hot against her skin as he nuzzles closer to her jaw. Elsa swallows and tilts her head away, squeezes the hand still pressed against his cock sudden and rough so he jerks, recoils for half a second - and although the idea was to move away instead she's stepping closer, taking the weight of him against her as his chin hooks over her shoulder.

She can feel him trembling, pressed chest to chest and the jut of his hip digging into her stomach; slips her hand out from between them and smooths it over the hem of his breeches, trails up his back until she finds the heat of his bruises under her palm and Hans hisses, sighs, presses closer so his mouth skims just behind her ear - 

(when she was seven she'd been out in the garden with just Kai watching over her, Anna stuck inside with a cold despite every four year old's attempt to prove she was not too sick to go play in the snow, and Elsa had slipped while chasing snowflakes and skinned her knee on the rocks surrounding the frozen pond. Her stockings ripped and blood bloomed so suddenly across her skin, and Kai crouched down next to her and told her to press a handful of snow against it - she'd stared at him with all the scepticism of a seven year old but did as she was told, held it until water trickled down over her leg and the sharp pain was just numbness, and she'd been fascinated by how quickly the bleeding stopped, the redness turning to white)

\- her hand continues up until her fingers brush the base of his neck and holds him still, and twists sparkling ice out of her free hand until there's a thin blanket of snow hovering in the air.

If she's honest, that wasn't quite a punishment, so this doesn't have to be a kindness. 

"Stay still," she says, her cheek pressing against his ear and Hans starts to pull away, lips brushing her jaw.

"Elsa, what -?" he starts, and then suddenly shouts as the ice finds his skin.

She shushes him, runs her fingers up into his hair until he relaxes into her again, still shivering. His breath comes heavy as he presses his forehead against her shoulder, but Hans doesn't resist even as her free hand drifts over his back, checks every bruise is covered before she trails her fingertips down his spine - she's indulging, again, but it's hard to stop when he's solid and real and so incredibly _warm_ , trembling at her touch and sinking his weight against her like she's the only thing holding him up.

 _This won't happen again_ Elsa tells herself, even as she wonders, maybe, if she’s overreacting - the most anyone got out of his attempt was a sprained ankle, and he’s still here. It’s not like she’s surprised by what he tried to do. She’s mostly just annoyed that he got so _far._

Hans draws in a shaky breath, the air rushing back out warm over her shoulder, and there’s a twist in her chest that feels awfully like betrayal - the fury that she couldn't find earlier, boiling vicious to the surface because he’s ruined whatever understanding they had between them in place of trust, and she still _wants him_. 

She almost laughs, her blood thrumming with the closeness as she bites her lip, and tells herself this is the last time.


	11. happiness never held on to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Dress and Tie - Charlene Kaye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGhy9BcFaKc).
> 
> surprise! early chapter, because I am way ahead with my writing schedule for once. thank you for being so lovely <3333

Her chambers are unchanged except for the cell door still hanging wide open and empty, sunlight streaking wide across the floor, and Elsa considers it for a heartbeat before she snaps her palm up and blasts the door off its hinges. 

Elsa takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes, lets it out slowly, and she's just inhaling again when the Guard Captain crashes through the chamber door.

"Queen Elsa -!"

"Oh, good," Elsa says, forcing calm into her voice despite her flushed cheeks, and opens her eyes. "You're here. I need that removed," she says, gesturing towards where the door landed against the wall, haphazard and half-coated in hoarfrost.

She can hear him behind her, the scrape of his soles against the wood as he recovers, stands to attention. "Of course, Your Majesty?" he says, lilting up at the end and then coughing to cover it. "I'll have a replacement brought up as soon as possible."

"That won't be necessary," Elsa says, and swallows before she glances over her shoulder. His sword is unsheathed, the tip almost touching the floor as he holds it out at his side and scans the room, still searching for what upset her, and she bites back the apology that wants to claw out of her throat. "And have Prince Hans brought up immediately."

Johann catches her eye, blinks, and bows his head in acquiescence. "Right away, Your Majesty," he says, a crease between his brows as he puts the sword back in its scabbard, and she smiles tightly as he lifts his head and leaves.

Three trunks sit stacked at the foot of her bed, her luggage brought up while she was busy, and Elsa trails her hand over the top as she walks past. Her fingers tuck over the ironwork corner as she lingers, unsure of quite what to do as she waits, unsure of what else possibly needs to _change_ before she can shake off this tightness hanging over her like soot, and her gaze flicks around the room before ending, inevitably, at the cell doorway. 

She narrows her eyes, and stalks towards it.

The jagged frost left by her outburst melts away as she trails her hand over the frame, the shattered hinges cracking and falling away, and Elsa brushes them aside as she crosses the threshold. The tiny window gleams in the evening light.

The details of how Hans escaped are sketchy at best: the only facts she has are that the window was thoroughly broken in the night, smears of blood on the jagged edges and the blanket thrown over the edge. It's small enough that even she would have trouble squeezing through that gap, and it would have cut him to ribbons - she's seen his skin. The only recent marks are the ones she gave him. His left hand, raised and bandaged, suddenly comes to mind, and she purses her lips, looks around.

There's the trunk of clothes she let him have, and the pile of books that's grown to almost hip height. The bed sits low and narrow and slightly away from the wall, a thin mattress and a single, worn pillow, the blanket apparently not yet replaced. The window was refitted some time in the week between his escape and her return, the sill pale and clean and without a scratch, and Elsa crosses the whole room in three strides and looks out, sees her kingdom shining whole and beautiful. The courtyard bustles with people far below.

Everything is so distant that it's almost silent, any sound thickly muffled and when she turns back to the door she realises she could almost touch the wall each side of her if she stretched her arms out. It's terribly sparse, and Elsa is suddenly, oddly, glad she let him out of here so often.

"Stop it," she whispers, and glances towards the ceiling. 

She had forgotten about the chains set into the wall - two lengths fixed to a plate high above the bed, circular shackles on each end, kept out of the way by being draped over a hook halfway up the wall. She should have locked him in them, so he wouldn't be a danger to anyone --

Elsa rubs a thumb over her wrist, twists her hands together. Reaches up to unhook the shackles from the catch and stumbles, yanked forward by the weight as they slip down, and then grabs a chain in each hand and _pulls_. Ice crackles and bursts along the wall, spikes thickening as the temperature drops and she grits her teeth as she throws all her strength into it, until the plaster shatters and the shackles come down in a shower of dust.

They land outside the cell with a thick, ringing clatter, hoarfrost thick along the metal, and she brushes her hands against her thighs. Breathes slowly until the air is warm again.

Glances back at the mess, and thinks, _Good. I hope I've made my point_.

Four guards with thick gloves stride in while she's still standing in the cell doorway, marching past her to the far corner of the room and not quite meeting her eye as they each take a corner of the broken door and heave it up between them. Elsa folds her arms and lightly taps her fingertips on the curve of her elbow, watches them as they navigate back out, and bites her lip to stop the urge to laugh as she hears a thump and someone swearing down the corridor.

She knows she might regret this display later, having spent months forcing herself to be perfectly calm and let every annoyance drop in the water like pebbles instead of fountains, but power thrums under her skin like she hasn't felt in weeks and she feels gloriously _free_. Her heart beats steady and solid and she knows it won't last for long, this feeling of utter control, so she wraps herself up in it anyway and finds something to do while she waits for Hans to be brought up.

There's a bottle of perfume on her bedside table - one that she left on her dressing table after she considered packing it and then changed her mind, and she picks it up just as there's a knock on her half-closed chamber door.

"Enter," she calls, still frowning down at her misplaced thing, and when she looks up the Guard Captain is standing in the doorway with his hand wrapped over Hans's shoulder, the silhouette of more guards just behind them waiting in the corridor. They're both looking towards the cell - either at the empty space or the pile of plaster-dust coated chains next to it, and when her gaze snaps back to them Hans is the first to meet her eye. 

The blanket she put around his shoulders is still there, and the manacles around his wrists - in the end she had been the one to crank down the hook and pull his shackles off it, catch him as he stumbled on legs that were perfectly fine a minute ago, and he backed away palms raised like it had been a complete accident. He had rubbed his arms as best he could against the cold, skin prickling with goosebumps and just watched her as she rolled her eyes and fetched the wool blanket from the bench, wrapping it so tightly around his arms that no one could possibly see there was nothing else underneath it.

She's suddenly, fiercely glad that no one thought to take it off him. Hans winces without a sound when he's shoved forward, a hand hard against the middle of his back, and Elsa exhales sharply. He seems as willing to keep up this façade as she is, which is - good, for the moment. She'll save the wondering if she has to worry about that for later. 

"I see you've been remodelling," Hans says, and Elsa sets the perfume bottle down with a hard clunk and crosses her arms. "It's a definite improvement."

Johann shoves a hand against his back again, shooing him across the room, and Elsa bristles with a feeling she can't quite identify. Protective isn't the word; possessive - might be. "You may go," she says, to Hans, and he meets her eye for a brief second before he rolls his shoulders, pulls the blanket tighter and keeps his head down until he disappears through the doorway.

She taps her fingertips against her arm as she thinks quickly. "Leave the key for his restraints here."

Johann looks at the empty doorway. "If I may ask, Your Majesty - how _do_ you plan on securing him?" 

"My usual way," Elsa says, and when he glances at her she tightens her lips and gestures towards the cell. Fractals of ice starts to grow out of the frame, splitting and filling into thin crystals until she draws her hand back and the icicles slow, stopping interlocked and sharp and filling half the frame. "The key for the shackles, if you could?" Elsa reminds him, and Johann rocks back on his heel, schooling the awe in his face into something more professional, but he looks more comfortable than he has since she returned. 

"I'll do that for you, Your Majesty," he says, smiling concisely, and she sucks in a breath to protest just as there is a clatter from the cell and Hans reappears, the blanket shifted around his shoulders so just his wrists emerge. The lock on each shackle is turned upwards and easy to get to and she can see the palm of his left hand, still wrapped tight and stained blotchy red.

"Fine," she says, clipped, and Johann strides across the chamber, reaches through the gap in the ice and jerks his hands closer before unlocking the shackles with such deliberate care that she assumes he's making a point of it. Hans watches the workings of his fingers with that studied, neutral expression, pure observation without reaction, until he glances up and catches Elsa's eye. His smile blooms sudden and deliberate, like catching sunlight through a lens, and Johann looks up and yanks the last shackle off hard.

His mouth is a thin line as he steps away, holding the empty shackles in one hand. "Shall I remove those, as well?" Johann says, and points two fingers towards the pile of chains.

"Thank you," Elsa says, and narrows her eyes as Hans slinks away. She shifts her weight so the edge of her bed is pressing against the back of her legs, patiently watches as Johann gestures for two guards in the corridor to fetch the shattered manacles, and almost flinches when she glances back at the cell and Hans is there, fastening the last top button on a clean shirt.

He leans his shoulder against the ice, his face going very still for a second before he adjusts his collar and meets her eye with a secretive smile that makes her grit her teeth - despite the beard and the sleep-bruised eyes and the smudge of grime over every angle, he looks far too _comfortable_. 

Elsa purses her lips. Raises her palm, and shoots a neat burst of ice across the room that lands as two thick circles shining around Hans's wrists, an arm's length of linking chain between them.

"Wait, Elsa -" Hans starts, but she twists her hand and he flinches back as the rest of the doorway starts to fill in, growing from the crisscross shards until the entire door is sealed. 

"That will be all," she says, to the guards, and smiles at Johann's approving nod before they bow in unison and leave, the chamber door clicking shut behind them.

Her room is, suddenly, very quiet. A shape lingers behind the ice door for a moment, pale behind the blue, before it steps away and out of sight. 

Elsa tells herself it's peaceful, and sets to work unpacking. 

 

It's late when she finally gets to bed; a long dinner as Anna recounted every hour of their trip, jumping between the days as Kristoff's laughter sparked another memory; then a longer session in her study as she caught up with letters that came during her absence and minutes from the council and a report of all disturbances within the kingdom (Hans's escape attempt is, thankfully, the worst of her problems), and all the lights in the castle have been turned out for the night when Elsa finally makes her way to her bedchamber.

She's swaying on her feet as she pulls on her nightgown, soft cotton that swishes down to her ankles, and in the steady light of her oil lamp she takes one last glance around her room - looks straight at the cell, if she's honest, but behind the glint on the ice there's nothing but deep shadows - before turning the flame down to nothing.

The pillows smell faintly of woodsmoke when she sinks into bed, or sage, like they were aired near the kitchens. It's familiar and lovely, and she glides her legs under the covers and rolls onto her side, stretching her arm out as the other bunches under the cushions. Of all the things she had been worrying about before the trip, she had never considered how much she would miss her own _bed_ , just the right size and the right scent and the right feel on it against her skin.

Elsa sighs, happy, and snuggles deeper into the pillows, feeling suddenly giddy and playful and _awake_ \- which, no, that's not what she needs, and she frowns as she buries her face in softness, forcing herself to feel sleepy again. 

It doesn't work. She huffs, throws herself onto her back, and listens hard to the silence as the castle settles into the night, familiar faint creaks and pops and skitterings in the walls. Feels the mattress beneath her, every soft brush of cotton against her skin tingling with awareness until she realises the space between her legs is pulsing the strongest, insistent like blood rushing into a bruise, and she's pressing two fingers against herself before she can stop the skipping of her thoughts landing on _Hans_.

She can't quite remember the last time she did this - before Hans it was always vague and lazy, slight sensation without any true end, and _after_ she had no need for it. The thought of him sparks so tightly she pushes her hips into her hand, rolls into it and then groans and flattens both hands against the mattress because it feels, ridiculously, _wrong_ to think about him, when it's just her, when it's just something pleasant and warm for herself.

He's not supposed to be the one she thinks about in her sleep. 

In Corona she had been so overwhelmed and busy that it was almost easy keeping her mind off him, and even today was hectic enough to stop her from giving in to how much she wanted. She had left the cell wound tight and unsatisfied and with an ember of anger that grew with every step nearer her chambers; infuriated with him and the guards who let him escape and herself for not immediately pushing him away as his hands skimmed over her shoulders, the chain between them rolling down her chest - 

She presses her thighs together, and can't stop herself from thinking about his _mouth_. It's been over two weeks since she last felt his tongue against her core and she wants so desperately that, for a surreal and overpowering moment, she considers storming into his cell and just letting herself have him, because despite everything that would almost be normal.

He always has been something she uses, her plaything regardless of whatever he wanted (although - there's the distant memory of the beginning, where everything was entirely his fault, his choice, because even then she knew she wouldn't be able to let herself do anything unless he wanted it. Elsa screws her face up and flips her head to the other side). It doesn't matter if she hurts him; he's a release, a toy, the one she goes to when she's having a bad day and needs someone she can be entirely _free_ with - and something tightens in her chest, because, wait, no, that doesn't sound right. 

Her hatred of him has been an unfailing constant almost as long as she's been queen. The way she used him was always an extension of that, not a contradiction. The idea that it might be shifting into - something else, she grasps at, shoves back any other word that floats up - is _unthinkable_. She gropes for the memory of him suspended and whipped, gasping with every strike and _yes_ , there's the sweet pulse between her legs at the thought of him suffering so surely she still must hate him. She still has that. Everything's fine.

There's still a weight in her chest, a tightness around her throat, but she buries her face in her pillow and thinks firmly of nothing until she's asleep.

 

In the morning a tray is brought up for him without her having to send for it, like nothing has changed; a covered plate and a wash bowl and the shaving things next to a bar of soap, and she almost laughs at the absurdity of it. She considers it for a moment (once the maid has left, the tray set on the dining table until Elsa decides how to do this, because now there's no question that Elsa is the only one allowed near him) and then picks up the razor and the mirror and the leather strop and sets them on a table to the side of the room.

Food and water are necessities. Grooming is a privilege, and she'll decide when - if ever - he's allowed it again.

The middle of the ice door melts away like candle wax as she approaches, drawing back to the thick structural shards until there's a gap at chest height wide enough to reach through. Another slab of ice spills out the other side, solidifying as Elsa leans through to place the tray on it, and once her hands are free she curls them over the edge and just listens for a second, because when she peers through all she can see is the bottom corner of the bed - there's the faint, rhythmic sound of him breathing, slow and steady in his sleep.

Elsa almost surprises herself with the sound of her sigh, impossibly loud in the stillness, and steps back quickly. He's _fine_. He must be, and the ice reseals itself as though it was never unwhole.

She spends the morning the throne room, politely greeting petitioners, and if she's a little brusque with the first few no one dares mention it. After lunch with Anna she heads alone to her chamber, because now she has to be there for every meal, every time anything needs to be passed through the door - which is the only way she feels even slightly secure in his imprisonment, but still. It feels awfully like she's at his beck and call. 

There's nothing but silence when she opens the gap in the door. She presses herself against the far edge so she can see as much as possible - forgetting, for a moment, that he can see her through the patterns in the ice - and there's just his feet, flat on the bed like he's sitting with his knees up in the air. A beat later and they're pulled back out of view without a word.

She frowns, but switches over the silver trays just as silently and pulls the ice back over the hole - slowly, at first, just in case (of _what_? a small, Anna-like voice says in the back of her mind, and she scowls) and then snatches her hand into a fist and the ice snaps shut with an audible crack. If he wants to be childish about things, _fine_. Elsa turns on her heel, and doesn't muffle the sharp click of her footsteps as she strides out of her chamber.

The sky is glowing a deep, violent blue when she returns, soaking the world beyond the window teal and lilac. It's later than she had planned; despite an early supper and swearing she would spend just an hour in her study, still catching up on work, Anna had ended up sitting on her desk and thoroughly distracting her with fantasies of all the adventures they should be having together, now that they've discovered how wonderful and not-terrifying sea travel is.

("I have lots of very important work to do here," Elsa had said, teasing, and Anna rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. 

"Olaf will take excellent care of Arendelle while we're gone, obviously," she said. "We would come back at least, oh, every few months to check in, but we'd have to go around the whole globe at least once, right? And we could go to one of those hot countries and you'd make it snow so we'd have the entire beach to ourselves." 

"And what about Hans?" Elsa said, too caught up in the fantasy to think before she spoke, not even sure what she meant, but Anna just twisted her mouth to the side as she considered it. 

"I guess we need someone to carry our bags, wave palm fronds over us, be a footstool when there isn't one available, you know," Anna said, gesturing vaguely into the air, and Elsa covered her face with a hand, shoulders shaking.)

The ice door stands dark at the side of the room, and she lights the lamps before pushing the last platter through a hole only just wide enough to fit. Maybe spending time with Anna makes her want to be a better person, or something like that; after contemplating the solid ice for a moment Elsa ignites a single oil lamp and sets it by the bottom of the door, the light catching up and scattering through the ice. 

She curls up in bed and reads until the words stop making sense, trailing over the same sentence three times before she even notices, and she's too lost on a distant shore to notice the aching silence as she settles down to sleep.

By the morning a seed of worry has rooted in her chest. Elsa trails around the bedchamber and pretends she's working, carries letters in one hand and missives in the other and passes by the ice door close enough that he could see her shape through the flaws, if he was looking. For her, the colours on the other side only move when she does and it takes half the morning before she admits this isn't helping at all.

There's the occasional chink of ice hitting ice, the linked chains slipping together as Hans moves, but it's always only once, and then silence - like every time he stills, waits, refuses to give any indication of what he's doing while she's suddenly listening so attentively.

Elsa thinks he might be sulking. Her papers hit the table with a hollow clutter and she sits, scrawls a reply to the council about the possibility of floods and taps her fingers against the table, a beat to her thoughts as the worry grows and twists. How long does it take for something like that to heal? What if he's in agony, in so much pain he can barely speak but too proud to make a sound?

She can remember Anna's childhood bruises better than her own, knees and ankles and patches on her arms caught from playing in the trees turning red and purple and green, while her skin always a little cold, just sore instead of colourful. She would always press at it until she found the edges and then forget it was there until she made the same move that caused it, brushing against a particular door handle or the overhanging edge of a table and hissing suddenly.

A moment where her thoughts clarify, crystallise, become nothing but panic and she's across the room and yanking the ice door open without touching it, quicker to pull every atom towards her than dissolving it back into the air. The floor groans as the ice swings across it.

Hans is sitting upright on the bed, legs crossed, a book balanced over his ankles as the chains pool in the space between his knees. Takes one look at her filling the doorway, and the forced silence is forgotten. "Barely two days," Hans says, and she draws her eyebrows together. "Since you last saw me," he clarifies, and Elsa breathes out, flicks her eyes to the ceiling. "I eagerly await the time when you can't bear to be apart from me for more than two hours."

Slamming the door again without saying a word is still a possibility, she reminds herself. "I just want to make sure you're not dying," Elsa says, and Hans holds her gaze for a second before he looks down with a smile, huffing out a laugh. 

"You're rather overestimating your own strength," he says, but unfolds his legs and stands up anyway, follows her as she sets her shoulders back and strides back into her chamber.

The sound of his bare feet against the wood stops before her footsteps do - when she turns he's paused halfway between her and the cell, waiting to catch her eye before he sinks down to his knees, resting his hands palm up on his thighs as the chain between them hangs in the space.

"Will this do?" he asks, the slant of his mouth so vulnerable that Elsa has to dig her fingernails into her palms to remind herself _no_. 

"I suppose," she says, carefully, raises her chin and sets herself like stone before she orders him to unbutton his shirt. The ice between his wrists clinks together as he works down the tiny pearls, and Elsa silently walks behind him, watching the curl of his fingers.

It would be easier if he was in any other position, standing or seated or lying facedown on the bed, but she doesn't tell him to move and Hans just sits, waits once he's reached the end and puts his hands back on his thighs. 

She could do anything to do him like this; his face turned away towards his knees as he bares his neck, a posed portrait of reverence in the wrong colours, but Elsa just picks her skirt out of the way and kneels down behind him. The rise and fall of Hans's chest has that cadence which means he's trying hard to stay quiet, but his breath still catches when her fingers find his shoulder.

His shirt slides down his arms easily as she curls her fingers over the collar and tugs, peeling down his back until it catches in the crook of his elbows and there it is - the lines across his back a vivid dark purple and she sucks in a breath, rushing loud in the silence.

 _I did that_ , she thinks, and whatever she's feeling settles in her chest rather than her stomach. 

"I'm sure it looks worse than it feels," Hans says, turning his head a fraction and cutting through the quiet as Elsa just stares. She catches his eye and then bites her lip, reaches up to brush two fingers down either side of his spine, and he jolts when her touch trails over the first bruise.

She stills, but doesn't pull her hand away. "Does it still hurt?" she asks, and traces her fingers across his back, skimming just the unmarked skin as he shivers. Her shins are starting to smart, unused to the hard press of the floor but she ignores it, focuses on the shift of his ribs under her hand with every breath.

"Only slightly," he says, and Elsa purses her lips. There are tiny, jagged cuts down one side of his back, healing but still bright and ringed with red - the hard edges of the flapper catching across his skin with every strike. She didn't notice them before.

She almost surprised to find that she doesn't regret it at all, even as she presses her palm light against his ribs to prove him a liar and he hisses, arching away. There's an odd sense of pride, something like when she had finished the ice palace and just stopped for a moment, and _looked_ at everything she could do. She thinks she should be more horrified, more contrite, more desperate to cover them up and pretend it never happened but instead she keeps _touching him_. 

There's a shudder in his skin, a pulse of heat radiating against her palm as she ghosts it over the bruises, a whisper away from contact and there it is, the want, catching tight in her chest. If it wasn't for the vivid bruises it would almost be a caress.

"Elsa..." Hans says, breathy, and she pulls her hand away, sets them in her lap as she tangles her fingers and sits back on her heels. She's meant to be checking that he's _okay_. 

"Would ice help?" she asks, almost reaches for him again before she twists her hands together. "For the pain, I mean," she says, and feels horribly off-balance despite quite solidly on the floor. 

Hans huffs out a breath, lets his head drop forward and rolls one shoulder, like he's shrugging something off. "A little, perhaps," he says, not looking at her. "Although heat is better for healing minor - things, like this."

Avoids the word _injuries_ , she notices, and doesn't know what to make of it. 

"I see," Elsa says, staring down at her hands for a moment, and then she pulls his shirt back up to his shoulders and tugs the collar to sit neatly around his neck, her fingers brushing his throat for a moment before she pulls away. "You may go," she says, and stands up. 

"Are you sure?" Hans asks, and he looks almost desperate when she glances at him. "I could - " he says, leaves the implication hanging as his gaze pours over her and he's so dangerous because he's so _good_ at that; blinking up at her with such wide, dark eyes that her fingers twitch with the want to be tangled in his hair. 

"Absolutely not," she snaps, and turns away with a sharp sigh. "Get back in your cell."

She hears him roll onto his feet after a long second, the ice chain ringing like chimes as he stands up, and there's a moment when she tenses because she's suddenly convinced he's going to try to touch her - but, instead, there's the sound of his footsteps leading away, disappearing into the cell, and she shuts the door behind him with a sweep of her hand. 

Breathes out, and tells herself the weight in her chest means nothing.


	12. so say what are you waiting for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from [A Little Less Sixteen Candles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxbRQGiZ2Ts), which is pretty much this chapter's theme song.
> 
> your comments get me through the working week. I love you all, and I'm so glad you're enjoying this, and iamsosorry but we're going back to the usual two week update schedule after this, mainly because I'm working on something new for helsa week. <3333

Elsa orders a bath to be brought to her chambers. The huge, linen-lined tub is set in front of the fireplace and filled with steaming hot water bucket by bucket, and an hour has passed by the time she has thanked the servants and locked the chamber door firmly behind them. She adds a sweet lavender scent and swirls it in, letting the heat seep up into her hand before she flicks the water off and pulls the ice door open with a twist of her fingers (and, there's a definite advantage - she doesn't have to be anywhere near him unless she wants to).

It's a few seconds before Hans emerges, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing as they land on the bath.

"It's for you," she clarifies, as he just stares at it, and his eyes flick to her and then sweep over the room like he's looking for the secret behind a trick, like he was expecting a dove to be turned into flames instead of flowers. "You said heat would be good for your back."

When his eyes find hers again they're wide, the frown softening into something more confused. "You're still taking care of me?" he asks, and she starts even as her throat tightens because, what? Of course she is. 

"You're my problem," she says, in the same way that a cook might mention the glowing red stove is hot after someone has burnt their fingers on it. She takes a step forward and that spurs Hans into moving, crossing the room in long strides until he's around the table and hesitating by the side of the bath.

"Hold out your arms," Elsa says, and he does, still faintly frowning at her - she wraps her hand around the middle of the chain (resists the urge to tug him off-balance, pull him _closer_ ) and concentrates on the shackles around his wrists until they both split neatly in half and fall away. She keeps hold of them as she steps back and gestures towards the bath with her free hand. "I suggest you get undressed," she says, and turns to collect her book from the bedside table so she won't give into the temptation to watch. 

Only his shirt is off when she turns back, fingers just working through the fastenings on his breeches, and Elsa focuses on dropping the ice shackles onto the table and getting to the armchair beside the fireplace without looking anything less than calm and disinterested. Hans tosses his clothes over the back of the closest dining chair (hers, she notes, and determinedly doesn't read anything into it) and sinks into the water as she flips the book open to her place.

She catches the movement of him over the top of the cover as he carefully dips one leg in and holds onto the side as he climbs in fully, turning so he can face her; and she can't stop herself from looking up when the water rises over his ribs and he hisses loudly, the pain-tight stretch in his face holding for an endless second before he sinks further down and melts into sore relief. The water laps at his chest and he sighs when he's in completely, his arms resting along the edge, his bandaged hand nearest her, his knees up and pressing wide against the side. 

He catches her looking, and she forces herself not to flinch away. "Sit with me," Hans says, quite suddenly, and a shadow drifts across Elsa's face before she looks down at her book.

"I don't think so," she says. 

"Would it be too improper?" he asks, and that hadn't even crossed her mind, the precedent of him long since transformed - although, thinking about it, she hasn't _ever_ been proper with him. The first time they met she left an eternal winter in her wake. Elsa laughs, shocked and genuine, and then presses a hand to her mouth in surprise at her own ease in the memory.

Hans watches her with confused pleasure, looking for all the world like he's just enjoying her delight instead of analysing it, and Elsa looks to the side for a second before she snaps her book shut and stands up, leaving it on the seat. "Fine," she says, meaning, _I know why not, but, why not?_

For a moment she considers dragging one of the dining chairs over, but instead circles her wrist and a neat column of ice rises next to the bath. When she sits down, low enough that she can rest her elbow on the edge as she faces him, Hans is smiling softly at her and she doesn't know why.

"So," he starts, before she can ask. "How was Corona?"

She sighs, sharp. "Blissful," Elsa says, and then presses her lips together like she's stopping herself from saying anything more. She has forgotten how to _talk_ to him, unsure of how to play this - every line that lingers on the back of her tongue is too cold, or cutting, or a lie. She doesn't know which would be best.

The water sloshes loud in the stillness as Hans sits up straighter, moves a little closer. "I did miss you, truly," he says. He looks down at the space between their hands like he's measuring it. She can see the bandage around the back of his palm, the end knotted and tucked in just next to his thumb.

"I didn't think about you at all," Elsa says, and glances around the room instead of watching how it lands. The water rushes in to fill the space as he sits back again, holds his weight on his arms as he sinks his bruises into the gentle heat, and when Elsa glances at him his head is tipped back against the edge, his eyes closed. 

"I must admit, I'm not used to this," Hans says to the ceiling, eyes still shut, and Elsa refuses to encourage him, sits quiet and still. "Someone caring enough to give me a second chance," he clarifies, regardless, and opens his eyes just to see if Elsa is frowning exactly as he imagined. The corner of his mouth quirks up as she narrows her eyes at him. 

"This is _not_ -" she starts, presses her mouth tight and then twists it to the side. "What did you think I was going to do?" she says, instead.

Hans laughs, short but genuine, and rests his head back on the edge of the bath. "At first, I thought you would leave me down there. Maybe fit me with an iron mask and put me at the end of a passage of a dozen doors and only feed me once a day... my brothers used to threaten me with that, when they wanted some peace. I suppose the image rather stuck with me.

"I was quite hopeful when you had me brought back up here but then I assumed, perhaps, that you were just keeping a close eye on me until I was shipped off somewhere else, made to be someone else's problem," he says, and tips his head to the side so he can look at her, watch how she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. He dips his fingers into the water, stirs it until it splashes shallow against the side, makes her look at the twist of his hand instead of his expression. "Although, now, I almost dare to hope that we might just carry on as before."

"If you hadn't tried to escape then we could have," Elsa says, and can't quite stop the full-body sigh she gives at the thought. 

"If you hadn't left I wouldn't have tried to escape," Hans counters, and Elsa snaps her gaze to him, hard, before rolling her eyes.

"Because I could stop you in a heartbeat."

"Something like that," Hans says, looking at her, and there's that twist in his lips again, the one she can't quite decipher. She frowns, and looks away. "I didn't want to go. I forced myself to," he says, and Elsa watches the fireplace for a long second before turning back to him.

"Why?" she asks, and then snaps her hand up as Hans grabs the side of the tub and surges forward with his eyes fixed on her mouth, the water sloshing violently. His neck slams into her palm and she tightens her grip as Hans suddenly isn't fighting at all, just tilts his chin up so his throat flexes under her hand, lips parted as his chest heaves.

"I like the way you touch me," he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he looks at her all soft eyes and without resistance, his pulse thudding against her fingers as he loosens his grip on the edge. The top of her legs are warm from the bath water spilling over the side. 

Elsa flicks her eyes from his hands back to his face, and relaxes her grip. "I noticed," she says, and hopes the flush in her cheeks is from anger. He has the audacity to look disappointed as she pulls her hand away entirely, and she goes to brush the water off her lap - finds, instead, that it has frozen against her dress, and it flutters off like snow.

"I _meant_ ," she says, when she drags her focus back to him and finds him watching her with a soft look on his face, "Why did you try to _go_ , if you were so -" she says, and struggles to find the words for how he apparently feels about... her.

Hans shrugs, sending the water lapping against the sides. "I had to. That was always the plan - find a way out of here as there was no chance of you ever forgiving me, and no chance of me ever earning it," he says, and pauses for a moment. Elsa assumes it's for dramatic effect, and cuts across him as he opens his mouth again.

"You haven't actually asked for my forgiveness, despite all your formal apologies," she points out, and Hans blinks at her. 

"Oh," he says, and his mouth draws into a small line as he looks away. "I hadn't realised. I thought - my father, I mean, always insisted that I be polite as possible, in all things. He said," Hans starts, and stares down, frowning, at the curve of his knee like he's searching for the exact words in the bones, "'I should admit my mistakes and let others decide if I was worth forgiving.'"

Elsa darts her tongue across her lips. Considers him for a moment before her eyes flick down and away. "Mine mostly just told me it wasn't my fault," she says, and watches the snowflakes melt on the floor with a fixed kind of stare.

Hans catches the stillness of her mouth, her hands tangled in her lap, and finds his fingers inching towards her. "I'm sorry," he says. 

She blinks, and sits up straighter. "That's a start," Elsa says, looking at him with the smallest twist of a smile, and the realisation that she's teasing him dawns like sunshine across his face.

Elsa's smile twitches wider, and then she ducks her head and looks down at his hand. Her expression hasn't changed when she catches his eye again. "Okay," she says, and Hans sets every angle of his body to attention, hardly moving but somehow straining towards her. She rests her arm on the edge of the bath again, entirely casual but her fingertips are suddenly inches away from his, lingering like a promise. "In the spirit of admitting your mistakes - how exactly did you escape?"

"You don't believe I climbed through the window?" Hans asks, and Elsa lowers her chin to glare at him properly. 

He laughs. "No, of course not. I made sure that from the courtyard it looked like I might have escaped through the window and then hid under the bed," he says, and his smile grows bigger at Elsa's sharp inhale. "Your guards unlocked the door for me and left it wide open. Once I heard them shouting their way back down the corridor, looking for me even as they left me entirely free to leave, I strolled out," Hans says, grinning, delighted with the audience. 

"I touched all your things before I left," he adds, and it suddenly strikes her how _young_ he is - barely two years older than her, and the youngest in his family. When he's not being overly formal or infuriating he has all the bearing of spoiled, playful child.

She has to take a moment to unravel the laugh from her voice before she speaks. "I see. Thank you for your honesty," she says, calm, but still the corner of her mouth tugs up with a smile. Hans mirrors it, lets his grin soften down into something warmer as his fingertips find the space between hers. 

Elsa suddenly pulls her hands into her lap, stands up and steps away. "I should let you wash," she says, cheeks flushing like she's just been insulted.

She moves the stool holding the soap and a soft scrubbing stone and a towel closer to the side so he can reach it, and settles back into her armchair by the fire. She stares determinedly down at her book.

"The last time I had a bath there were eight of your guards watching me," Hans says, as there's the sound of water splashing and swirling, rushing into empty spaces as he shifts. Elsa looks at the fire.

"I could summon a few, if that would make you more comfortable," she says, and doesn't turn to look when he laughs. 

His voice floats light through his smile. "Your company is infinitely preferable," he says. "I wouldn't dare ask any of your guards if they would be so kind as to wash my back."

She flicks her eyes to him, frowns, turns back to the fire. "Don't push it," she says, even as she can't stop herself noticing how he keeps his bandaged hand clear of the water.

The fire crackles and spits, the logs shifting, and Elsa concentrates on the pages clutched between her fingers as she listens to him wash; the scrub of the stone against the solid length of his arm; the rush of whirling water as he dives his head below the waterline and comes back up gasping; the quiet sounds of the water lapping up and dripping off him; and then there's a sound she can't place, oddly rough, and when she turns Hans is scrubbing a hand across his jaw, his fingers catching loud against the beard.

"How long do I have to keep this?" he asks, when he notices her looking. "Really, Elsa, forcing me to wear this is just barbaric."

"It certainly doesn't suit you," she says, which is kind of a lie, but it makes him look like someone he's not; older, and almost gentle. "Are you done?" she says, glancing down at the bath, and when Hans nods and stands up, ready to climb out, she hastily turns away before she can stop herself. Silently scolds herself for showing something like weakness, but now she's facing away she can't possibly turn back.

There's the thick rasp of the towel as he picks it up and starts rubbing himself down - then, suddenly, a hiss, and she doesn't waste the chance to look. The towel is wrapped around his shoulders, covering him down to the top of his thighs and drooping low in the middle as he holds it away from his skin. She can see a line of blotchy purple across his back.

"Here," Elsa says, before he can ask, and she's up and tugging it out of his grip, more draping than holding it against his skin. "Does it feel any better?" she asks, as his shoulder blades drift down. 

"It barely hurts at all," Hans says, and keeps his head bowed forward. 

"Good," she says, quiet, and pats her hands down the towel to the curve of his waist, catching it as the top tumbles down after her. She almost gives in to the odd urge to wrap it around his waist for him - instead she grasps it in one hand and holds it out through the space under his arm, waiting for him to take it.

"Thank you," he says, glancing over his shoulder as she steps away. "For - everything."

"Get dressed," Elsa says, and brushes past him, leaves the little cooped-in area between the bath and the fireplace. The straight razor and the leather strop are on the side table just as she left them, and she carries them over to the dining table as Hans shrugs on his shirt. He leaves it unbuttoned as he fastens his breeches and fixes his cuffs.

"Hold out your wrists," Elsa says, and Hans looks up to find her holding the ice shackles in one hand again.

"Elsa, really?" Hans says, slanting his face into a disappointed plea, and Elsa walks closer until she's a foot away and grabs his wrist herself, yanking it higher as the thick circle claps over his cuff and sets seamlessly whole again. "I thought we were past this."

"I only took them off to avoid an accident," she says, and at his slight questioning frown she tugs his arm to the side, holding it over the bath, and lets the other end of the chain splash down into the water.

It freezes solid in seconds, spreading out in spikes and swirls from the chain link half-submerged on the waterline. Hans just watches - when the whole bath is white and flecked with air bubbles he tugs his shackled arm, just to test it, and finds the chain utterly unforgiving.

"Ah," he says, and looks at her. "Point well made."

Elsa quirks up the side of her mouth. "Stay still," she says, and reaches up to fasten his shirt properly - starts at the fourth button and works her way down, her fingers quick and sure, and then wraps her hand around the taut ice chain and barely has to think of Anna at all before the ice is melting. The shackle slips free and Elsa snaps it over Hans's wrist (held out and waiting for her, as he watches her face instead of her hands) and doesn't resist the temptation to tug the chain as she steps away, sending him tripping forwards after her.

"Bring your chair over," she says, and Hans steadies himself, considers the scene as Elsa pulls her usual seat a little away from the table and sits down. His shaving things are all neatly laid out in front of her.

Elsa glances at him, just as he's fixing his mouth in a solid line like he's stopping himself from saying something unwise, and when he carries the other chair around he sets it right next to her, close enough to catch a drape of her dress between the sides. He sits, facing her. 

"You can do that part yourself," Elsa says, pushing the soap and lather brush towards him, and Hans chuckles as she picks up the razor and runs it over the strop, like she's watched him do countless dozens of times. 

"I could do all of it myself, even with these on," he says, and picks up the brush as Elsa glances at him out of the corner of her eye, a smirk playing in the angle of her mouth.

"Don't you trust me?"

"With my life," Hans says, instant and heavy and serious, and Elsa's smile drops like a curtain. She blinks, and focuses on the run of the blade across the leather.

"Don't be surprised that I don't say the same," she says, eventually, and Hans lathers up without arguing. When he's done Elsa looks him over, so close she can almost feel the heat of him, and considers his hands resting on his thighs. She could freeze them into a single block so heavy he couldn't lift them, or fix them around his back like a straightjacket, or wrap more chains around the chair and hold him still (could remove the shackles entirely so he could do this himself, if she's honest, but there's the bandage around his hand and her distrust and her ridiculous need to touch him; to hold a blade against his neck might almost be enough -)

"Keep your hands in your lap," she says, and shifts closer so the thick of her hip presses against his knee. He doesn't flinch when she brandishes the blade next to his cheek; just tilts his head so she can easily draw it down from his cheekbone to his jaw, and Elsa tries to keep her face still when the clean, unbroken skin emerges in her wake.

"Perhaps you're a natural," Hans says, when there's no sting as the air finds his skin. 

"Perhaps I'm just good with dangerous objects," Elsa says, and sets to work. She clears his cheek and orders him to press his mouth tight as she does his top lip and then the other side, smoothing the blade down over the corner of his jaw. 

She pauses to clean the foam off the metal, and Hans seizes the opportunity to speak. "You are a most unusual queen," he says, and Elsa sighs. "Or - unusual person, perhaps" he says, and he's looking over her shoulder when she glances at him.

"You clearly want to talk," Elsa says. "Don't wait for me to prompt you," and sets to stropping the blade again just to keep her hands busy. 

Hans licks his lips. "You're better than any valet I was ever deigned to have. And I meant it, when I said I wasn't used to this... I've made a lot of childish mistakes, the kind of foolish, simple thing that should have been brushed aside and forgotten but no one really cared enough to do so. I had once chance to impress my importance onto anyone or I was forgotten entirely."

"Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?" Elsa says, not as lightly as she would like. She pretends to study the shine on the metal.

"No," Hans says, and she can see the angle of him out of the corner of her eye, entirely focused on her. Refuses to look at him. "It's a reason, not - an excuse. I am truly sorry, for how I attempted to take your kingdom. I was impulsive, and cruel, and blinded my own ambition."

Elsa breathes out. His apologies are nothing new. "And if you had succeeded you wouldn't have regretted it for a moment," she says, pursing her lips as she lifts the razor again and holds it at a low angle against the underside of his chin. 

Hans inclines his head, accepts it, lets her draw a long line through the lather down his throat. "But there could have been better ways," he says, when she reaches the end. "I went for the easy option."

"Call Anna easy again and my hand _will_ slip," Elsa says, moving her hand back to his jaw. 

"I meant," he starts, swallows, the jump of his throat nudging the base of her palm. "I meant death. Trying to kill you was the easy option. You didn't seem like a real person, so I had no disquiet over what I had to do."

She doesn't think of the person she was at her coronation. Feels her heart thudding against her chest as she pauses, and looks up. "And if you had the chance again?"

"If anything happened to you, I don't think I would be the next in line for the throne," Hans throws out lightly, quirks his mouth like he's sharing a old joke. Elsa waits, pulls her hand back and looks at him until he meets her gaze again, until she knows he's back out on the frozen fjord and standing behind her. 

He opens his mouth, closes it, darts his tongue out to wet his lips. "I'd hesitate, at least," Hans says, can't hold her gaze, and perhaps it's the way it sounds like honesty that makes her chest twist like that. It's not the answer he should have given, if he was looking to reassure her. Elsa knows he can lie while looking straight at her, smile sweetly and creep closer as he breaks the truth into neat pieces. 

She doesn't know what to make of this sudden shyness.

"Elsa, I - " he tries, and she waves him off, not caring what narrative he found in the few seconds she allowed herself to just study him. 

"Let me finish this," Elsa says, and Hans raises his chin and lets her press the blade against his skin without another word. When she's done, the beard completely gone and his skin shining smooth again, she sets the razor down and nudges the towel towards him so he can wipe the last of the foam away.

She can see his hand spanning the width of his jaw, thumb and middle finger running up his skin to find his sideburns still there, as exact as she remembers them. "You would look strange without them," she explains, cleaning the blade again as she waits for his response. Frowns at the silence, and looks up.

He's looking down at the shackles in his lap, the chain piling in the dip of his thighs as his hands settle on his knees again. "If I asked, would you forgive me for how I conducted myself during your absence?"

If she's honest, she no longer considers it something that needs forgiving. "Yes," Elsa says, anyway, and watches him carefully as Hans exhales.

"And - " he says, breathing in deep like he's steeling himself. "If I ask for your forgiveness for everything?"

Elsa puts the blade down. Draws her hands into her lap and links her fingers together as she studies him; watches the way he opens his mouth for a moment, tongue pressed against the edge of his teeth, but then he just chews his lower lip and presses them tight shut. Waits for her to decide if he's worthy. 

She doesn't think about all the things that almost happened, because that's not the point. Listens to the fire crackle somewhere off to her side and searches for the hatred, like it could still be smouldering deep somewhere, and thinks of him suffering. Thinks about the nobility of mercy, the choice of forgiveness, the difficulty of letting something go.

"Yes," Elsa says, and presses her tongue against the roof her mouth because the word doesn't taste wrong at all, a strange stillness in her chest and her stomach like this isn't something new that needs to be reacted to.

Hans seems to shrink, slumping into the chair. There's a shaft of sunlight creeping along the table - Elsa glances away from him and watches it catch the edge of the water bowl instead, sending light scattering up to dance on the ceiling. 

"Because, in the end, I didn't do any harm?" Hans says, like he's running his hands over the foundations, searching for the instabilities before he puts his faith in it. 

"It's not conditional," Elsa says, still watching the light twist. Glances at him, and he's looking at her through his eyelashes, eyes twitch-tight and lips parted. "It's not about the consequences. Of course I'm glad neither of us hurt anyone, but that's not it," she says. Sighs, flicks her eyes to the ceiling as she tries to find the right words. "It's simpler than that. I choose to forgive you."

Hans stays quiet for a minute, and she doesn't look at him, and then the chair creaks as he shifts closer. "Does that mean you'll let me out of the shackles?" he asks, half teasing with that familiar slant to his mouth, and Elsa lets the tension drain out through her feet as she sighs. 

"Forgiving doesn't mean forgetting. Or trust," she says, runs her gaze over him, lingers on his bandaged hand. She reaches for it and Hans lets her, every joint easy as she pulls it towards her lap.

"Is that what I should ask for next, then? Trust?" Hans says, his smile blooming into a grin.

"What do you want, Hans," Elsa says, flat and inflectionless, and his name trips so awkwardly off her tongue she realises how little she says it. She focuses on pulling apart the knot, unwinding the fabric with its blotchy, old-blood brown spots. 

She holds his fingers flat as the bandage unravels and slips off, tossing it towards the table without looking because finally she can see the long cut slashed across the middle of his palm. It's shallower than she expected - the edges are already well knitted together, healing cleanly, and although his palm is smeared with dried blood there's nothing she has to do to fix this.

Hans doesn't say anything as she twists to reach the table. The hand wrapped around his fingers rests on her knee and her free hand is the wrong side to be anything but awkward, but, still, she just leans over to grab the towel and dip a corner into the wash bowl, dampening it enough to dab it lightly over his skin. 

She brushes away the rust and he doesn't flinch as she cleans his palm, even as she strokes the tip of her finger along the edge of his injury, wiping away the last of the red. The towel drops back onto the table with an airy thud when she's done, letting go of his hand in the same moment, and it drops to rest low on her thigh. The chain between his wrists slips over her knee.

Hans gently catches her arm as she draws it back from the table. His fingers curl around the base of her palm and she's so nonplussed by the sudden warmth that she lets him, just watches as he floats her hand up and presses his mouth to the inside of her wrist. She feels it tingling in the strangest places; the curve of her thigh pressing into the chair and her opposite shoulder and the base of her neck, like her body doesn't know what do with the sensation.

"I can promise I will never take the freedom you allow me for granted again," Hans says, and she doesn't know if that's supposed to answer her question or not. Her wrist is still cradled between his fingers.

"That's a start," Elsa says, and hopes her voice isn't quite as breathless as it sounds in her head. "Then maybe we can work on your moral reasoning.”

"Do you really think that's possible? Every kind thing I've ever done was for my own gain," he says, his mouth twitching into a smile, self-depreciating and soft. Challenging her.

"You're obviously capable of it, even if it's for the wrong reasons," Elsa counters, and that wasn't supposed to be _nice_ but Hans blinks and is suddenly looking at her like Anna does, like she's the most incredible thing in this world.

"We're done," she says, before he can say anything else. Leans forward ready to stand up as she starts to pull back her hand and then suddenly Hans is a breath away, tilted towards her like his mouth is magnetised to hers. His gaze drifts up from her lips to catch her eye and, for just a moment, she hesitates. 

Elsa scrapes her chair back, stands up and moves away. "If you're very good, you might earn your way out of those shackles," she promises, not looking at him, dipping her fingers in the pool of sunlight slicing across the table.

He clears his throat before speaking. "And how would I do that?" he asks, no waver in his voice but the creak of the chair gives him away.

"By doing whatever I tell you to," Elsa says, light. "Get back in your cell," she says, and he's up and through the doorway before she even turns to look. The ice door swings tightly shut with a sweep of her arm, and then she curls both hands around the edge of the table and breathes out, sharp. There's not a speck of frost over the wood.

There's a flutter in her stomach, she notices, when she's stable again and perched on the edge of the table. She thinks, despite telling herself not to be so silly, it might be excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this is supposed to be porn fic, where do all these gross feelings keep coming from. I'm sorry. Here's a super-serious look at Hans' current state of mind: [music!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zb6M3gVF9CA)


	13. together we're just better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Dress and Tie - Charlene Kaye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGhy9BcFaKc) (again).
> 
> at last! a chapter that is mostly porn. thank you so much for sticking with this, and saying such lovely things, and giving me more love than I know what to do with. <3333

"Is there _anything_ I can do for you?" Hans asks, for the sixth time in as many days, and Elsa hmms lightly instead of sighing like she wants to because the truth is _yes_ but the answer is always:

"Not today," and she pushes her dinner plate away with the tips of two fingers. This, a quiet dinner together, is a moment of deja vu wrapped up in a reward for staying silent while she worked, because it turns out her chambers are still the most peaceful place in the castle as long as Hans has the right motivation to be good. 

It feels almost like they're slipping back into a familiar routine (with the notable exclusion), except everything is tentative and awkward like a renegotiation of terms and she keeps finding the jagged edges where it fell apart. The previous day she nearly let him out for company while she worked and actually flinched when she remembered he hadn't earned that yet, as she approached the door and there was a clink of the chains still between his wrists.

She had worked in her study, instead, and been completely distracted by Anna's plotting for the anniversary of her coronation ("That's _months_ away," Elsa reminded her, and Anna tsked. " _Exactly_. Which is why we're gonna start planning now, so you don't find it's suddenly next week and start freaking out. Ooh, do you think we should make it snow again?") and had hardly got anything finished at all.

Today was more productive, at least, but the consequence is Hans sitting dark-eyed and opposite her and the promise of taking it slow is starting to wear very thin - because, if she's honest, never riding his mouth again was only an option for as long as it took for her anger to drain away.

In the night a storm flirts past with one roll of thunder so loud she feels it in her stomach, the rain hammering down in a short burst that's gone between the drift of her thoughts and there's silence again, between the drips rolling off the roof and drumming down on the windowsill. _Tomorrow_ , she thinks. A week seems like a sensible, neat amount of time to make him wait for it, to collect herself, to have something almost like a plan in place to make him prove how much he wants it. She flexes her hands, clutches at the bedcovers and hides her smile in the darkness until she feels quite silly and rolls over onto her side, and makes herself go to sleep.

The world outside her window is glittering fresh in the early sunlight, low and dazzling, and she lets Hans out of the cell to shave himself at the table (it turns out he can, in fact, still do that with the shackles on) and then seals him back in. She spends the morning elsewhere, in the throne room and then out in the town discussing the guilds with Kristoff, who still blushes when she catches him holding Anna's hand but can talk business easy as breathing.

The only flaw she can find as she heads back up to her chamber at midday (mentioning the treaty outline she absolutely must get finished today) is that she is somehow, illogically, _nervous_. She holds herself steady, pressing the edge of her nails into her palm just enough to feel it, the promise of control if she needs it, and swallows as the flutter in her stomach breezes lazily around something like excitement.

Her chamber door locks quietly shut behind her. The turn of the key is reassuringly solid, and she rests her hand against the wood before she turns and seats herself at the table with dull letters and documents spread neatly out in front of her, looking for all the world like she is just there to work. Takes a breath, and then twists her hand so the ice in the cell doorway disintegrates until there's just the interlocking icicles, and they shrink away into nothing with a curl of her fingers.

"I thought you could keep me company," she calls, looking anywhere but the cell as she listens, and holds her smile to ransom as there's the jangling clink of him getting up and hurrying quickstep to the doorway.

"Of course," Hans says, his voice tripping light through his smile, and then, when she glances at him, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Elsa hums, twisting her mouth into the sound to stop the corners darkening. "Yes, I think there is," she says, and he sucks in a breath, his shoulders hitching up.

" _Elsa_ ," he says, and pours his gaze over her with such fever that she glances down and brushes imaginary creases off her dress just to check it's still there, before she stands up and walks delicately to the middle of the room.

"Come here," she says, and Hans is at her side in an instant.

His gaze never quite rests but it keeps landing on her mouth, and she wraps her hand around the chain between his wrists while he's distracted (by _her_ , a heated little voice says, and this feels both comfortingly familiar and dangerously new) concentrating until the shackles crack open and drop heavy into her grip.

"If you're very good, I won't put them back on," Elsa says and he finally meets her eye and holds it, his smile spreading like frost until his whole face is glowing with it.

"I will do whatever you tell me to," Hans promises. It suddenly strikes her that this has never been something they talk about, or even negotiate - there is only ever her commands, and the moment she waits to see if Hans will obey. Elsa allows herself the barest slip of a smile, licks her lips, steps back.

"Get undressed," she orders, and turns to go drop the shackles on the table as his fingers fly to the buttons on his shirt. He's almost done when she turns back, perching on the edge of the table and loosely resting her hands either side of her as she watches him.

"There are rules," Elsa says, as he slips off his breeches and tosses them towards the bed, not caring to look as they land on top of the shirt already slipping off the side.

"Anything," Hans nods, glancing down at his bare skin and flexing his fingers, then sets his jaw a beat after catching Elsa's eye and stands at parade rest, legs wide and his hands behind his back - and she must admit she's fascinated by that, the way he slips into courtly formalities or the bone-deep training of a soldier when he's unsure how to act.

Elsa curls her fingers over the table edge, looks him over slowly. "Good," she says, not lingering anywhere particular, and then, "First, you do exactly as I say."

"Of course," Hans says, inclining his head.

"Second, if you make a noise without my permission, I will stop," Elsa says, pitches it low like a threat, and there's a twitch of a smile before Hans fixes his mouth into a thin line, and nods. 

Her nails scratch under the wood as Elsa tightens her fingers, grounds herself, but his eyes are on hers and the muscle memory of commanding him wraps around her tongue with an ease she's _missed_.

"Get on your knees," she says, and Hans sinks to the floor, keeping his hands behind his back and his shoulders down. Elsa considers him, and then, "Spread your legs wider," she says, lilting almost like a question, and Hans licks his lips before shifting the spread of his thighs to a perfect v. She's missed this - all that pale skin thick with freckles; the shift of his muscles tense with anticipation but not yet straining; the trail of dark hair leading from his stomach down to his cock, already half-hard and thickening as she studies him.

He keeps his head ducked until he glances up, looking at her through his eyelashes, and Elsa dismisses the coil of tension above her core and unfolds a smile instead. The way he looks at her is still so dangerous (she _wants_ , regardless of logic and plans and trust), but blindfolding him was already the plan. 

"Wait there," Elsa says, and strides past him at an angle to his cell. She goes straight for the chest of clothes and then, for a moment, gets quite distracted by how organised he keeps it; instead of the shuffled mess it was when she first let him have it everything is neatly folded and piled together, the neckties all tucked to one side. There's an odd warmth in her chest that feels a lot like she's _charmed_.

She picks a dark blue cravat that runs like water through her fingers, closes the lid and heads back to her chamber and Hans hasn't moved, not even a turn of his head at the sound of her heels tapping against the floor. "Good boy," she says sweetly, and quietly delights in the way he sighs like it's been punched out of him. 

The silk slips over Hans's eyes and he straightens up, pushes closer as she ties it not tightly around the back of his head, keeping it more like a suggestion of how utterly at her mercy he is than anything binding. Elsa catches the tips of her fingers tangling in his hair and promises herself _later_ , and doesn't miss the way his shoulders sink down as she steps away. 

Her footsteps click loud and steady as she goes back to her chair, settles with her elbow on the table and her chin on the base of her palm. Studies him as he shifts to get comfortable, the thick cable of his arms strung tense behind him and anticipation burning gorgeously between her thighs. 

"Touch yourself," she commands in the voice she so rarely gets to use without feeling immediately guilty; disinterested and almost bored, a lie in every syllable but Hans still bites his lip. "However you like," she adds, and Hans exhales and then licks wide over his palm and wraps it around his cock, the slightest stutter in his stomach before he conquers it, holds himself still and just works his hand along his length. He's all slow rhythms and cupping his other hand around the base of his cock as he works the head, making a show of it, and Elsa doesn't quite mind as she crosses her legs and watches him, catching her little finger between her teeth without thinking.

It's not long before his hips are doing that jerky little roll like he can't stop them, like he's about to come, and she wonders if this is the first time he's even touched himself since she left. He's desperately eager. His mouth is open and anguished even as he doesn't make a sound and Elsa cannot hold back her grin as she says, " _Stop_."

Hans whines, silently, a jump in his throat as he lets go instantly. His mouth draws into a grimace as his cock twitches, the head slick and beaded wet. "Put your hands behind your back," Elsa says, waits until he's clutching at his forearms behind him and straining with the need for friction, and then turns to the desk, and pulls her papers towards her.

Elsa thinks she sees him twitch, as the paper taps hollow against the desk and he realises that she's _ignoring him_ , but when she glances over he's perfectly still. She hmms, quiet and thoughtful; makes sure each page rustles as she turns through them, the scratch of her pen loud and precise and she is, genuinely, working - skimming through missives and letters to distant cousins faster than she ever has before, because she's set herself up with the most beguiling motivation. 

(She had considered simply just watching him in silence, letting him wonder and worry about what, exactly, she was thinking, and planning, and _doing_ \- but the reminder that she can easily choose anything over him is too perfect to miss).

Minutes pass and the shift of his thighs catches her attention, the movement stark after so long in perfect stillness. The scratch of her pen slows for a moment as she watches him out of the corner of her eye. His head has been dropping imperceptibly forward as the wait grows longer and, if anything, he's getting _harder_ from the desperation; aching and vulnerable and knowing that she can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. Elsa bites her lip, grins around her teeth, and carries on working.

When she next glances at him she finds herself suddenly, thoroughly distracted; she can just see the sweep of his hair as his head drops further and his shoulders sinking down, looking deliciously defeated but that's not the point, not yet. Elsa taps her fingers silently against the table - she's not quite finished but she doesn't want him thinking she's _forgotten_ him.

Her eyes flit past him to the cell door, and her lips twist, mischief in the corner of her mouth. She pushes one palm towards him and tendrils of snow swirl out of the air, skipping along the floor until they're scorching frost over his thighs and his stomach and slipping underneath him, not quite touching his cock but enough that he jumps, mouth opening like a gasp but - she's impressed - without a sound. 

Elsa lets her laugh ring quiet and clear. Catches the twist of his mouth returning it, as best he can through his quick shallow breaths, as she turns back to the desk.

It's another few long minutes before she's done, leaving the papers splayed across her desk so there's no shuffling hint of her stopping, and has to press her nails into her palms again to remind herself to take it _slow_. The top of her thighs are slick as she uncrosses her legs - as desperate for this as he is, if she's honest, but still she silently toes off her shoes and melts her dress away, slips out of the chair without a creak from the joints.

It's more fun if he doesn't expect it. 

Her bare feet make the barest whisper as she pads across the room, staying up on her toes, and she has to press her lips together when she's a foot away and Hans tilts his head, brows furrowed. She sets her feet either side of his knees, an inch away from touching; there's a secret, endless moment as she studies the rise of his chest and the freckles over his shoulders, the flush of red high in his cheeks disappearing under the silk - and then she sinks down to sit across his thighs so his cock rubs against her core, slipping along her folds, and there's a choked whine that could almost be a sigh.

"What was that?" Elsa says, sweet and light and leading and Hans presses his lips together, swallows hard. His cock presses urgently warm against her sensitive skin and she curls her hands over his shoulders - god, she even missed the feel of his muscles bunching beneath her palms - and rolls her hips into it. He's solid beneath her, the slightest tremble with each shift of her hips but silent anyway, and she grins.

"Good boy," she says, and his breath rushes warm between them, his cock twitching against her. "Third condition," she says, and feels his shoulders hitch a fraction under her hands, "You're not allowed to come unless I give you permission."

He nods, more of a jerk of his chin. Elsa drags her thumb over his collarbone, finds the dip between the bone and his shoulder as she just _touches_ him for a moment, because she finally has the perfect excuse - a brutal test of his self-control. Suddenly, she can let herself be _sweet_.

Elsa trails her mouth over the hollow in his skin, acknowledgement and reward of his restraint, and then digs her nails into his shoulder as she reaches down and wraps her hand around his cock. She runs her fingertips along it, just to watch the way his lips part, the hitch in his chest, and savours the drag of it along her folds until she finds her entrance. She draws him inside, her head falling back and eyes fluttering shut as she sinks down slowly, and she grins when she feels Hans tensing underneath her thighs. 

The full length of him slips thick inside her and Elsa sighs, rolls her hips just once so she can feel her muscles stretch around him - and oh, _yes_ , that's perfect. Moans honeyed and low in her throat and drapes her arms around his shoulders, as Hans grits his teeth with an audible clack and tightens the grip on his forearms, and then she opens her eyes and surges forward like a thunderstorm because she can't stop herself thinking how _pretty_ he looks like this.

Her teeth latch over his throat, biting hard and quick. Within a few strokes she's working her hips in a quick rhythm, not interested in taking it slow when it's been so _long_ and she feels like she might crumble from the need of it, the feel of his skin sliding hard against hers. Her mouth scrapes over his jaw as his breath stutters and Hans twists and tries to find her lips, before she pulls away and digs her claws into the base of his neck. 

She scratches at his ribs; the tense thickness of his arms; drags her fingertips up the edge of his back and grins into his skin when he sucks in a breath and then bites his tongue to silence it.

Bone crashes against the flat of his stomach as she rocks her hips against him and she could come from just this, the pulse of him inside her as she draws deep with each flick-thrust of her thighs - but she learnt a while ago that the sight of him shattering sparks through her like lightning jumping between clouds. So - she works herself up to the point of _almost there_ , circling a fingertip just above where his cock stretches her wide, and then slows. 

Elsa finds the mark she left on his throat, reddening slightly, and this time she licks across it, nuzzles up to press her mouth in something like sweetness just under the corner of his jaw. He tastes like salt, mostly, his blood thrumming under her tongue, and she trails her mouth gently down to his collarbone as her fingers slip up into his hair. It's been a while since she last let him cut it, and it curls around her knuckles as her hand catches against his ear.

Hans shivers, but when she pulls away she can see the frown bunching under the blindfold, like he's trying to find the torture in this soft touch. Elsa grins, swaying her hips intimate and slow one more time before her fingers twist in his hair and she clenches hard and slams down around him - it's sharp and sudden but Hans is getting so good at this, not making a sound even as his mouth falls open, his brows creasing high and anguished.

She's almost disappointed. Elsa bites his bottom lip, actual suction for all of a second before she pulls away and he surges forward to follow - stops as soon as there's her hand around his neck, a sting of her nails in his flesh, and now that she has him caught between her fist in his hair and her grip on his throat she lets herself just use him; rolling her hips in vicious thrusts that pull on every nerve, stretching her deep and perfect and she comes with all the force of _weeks_ of needing it, fire flooding through her viscera and down to the marrow of every bone as she keens happily through it.

Her heart is pounding. Everything's slick and slippery as her fingers loosen, releases him, but she cants her hips again just for the way his face twitches. The shudder of his chest has that slight irregular cadence, like he wants to gasp for air but is trying to stay quiet, and Elsa sighs through the afterglow, considers him softly for a beat.

"You're allowed to breathe," Elsa says, and he shudders as he's suddenly gulping down air, almost falling against her until he has it under control, just panting and shaky.

"You're doing so well," she murmurs, almost fond, and brushes the sweat-sticky hair off his forehead. Hans drops his head forward, cheeks burning scarlet.

Still, he's perfectly solid as she curls her hands over his shoulders again to push herself up, letting him slip out of her slowly before she steps back a foot and just _looks_ at what's she made of him - red scratches around his neck like a collar and across his chest, heaving with every breath, his cock standing red and thick and dripping shiny because of _her_ \- and another flare of heat burns through her so exquisitely she can't even bring herself to feel ashamed.

Elsa steps close, one foot nudging next to his and the other in the space between his thighs. She cards her hand across the top of his hair until the knot of the blindfold catches under her fingertips, and pulls back, pets him again (Hans just breathes, head bowed) before she fists her hand in his hair and drags his head up, pulling his face between her legs. 

There might be a moan but it's smothered in her skin, and she grinds her core down against his mouth until he gets the idea, exploring with the tip of his tongue. He finds her entrance, soaked open and ready, and works up from there - starts mouthing at her hungrily, sucking at her with that practised ease that has her gasping so delightfully. When he finds that sweet spot she shudders, almost laughing with pleasure.

She can feel sweat beading down her back. The fireplace is stoked but not roaring, just tumbling steady warmth out, but her chamber is so _hot_ and it almost feels like the moment between thinking of Anna and watching the ice dissolve back into the air - and then Hans flicks his tongue mercilessly up against her and her thoughts turn to static, all the clarity of a blizzard. 

Hans is all harsh breaths and teasing pressure, no resistance under her hand as she guides him closer and is rewarded with the tight warmth of his lips kissing between her folds. There's a hitch in his shoulders as his arms slip slightly, loosen, relaxing because he _knows_ this, and putting her pleasure before his is the easiest thing in the world.

When she comes it's less intense than the first but somehow wider, more expansive, both hands buried in his hair as she rides his mouth, and Elsa can't stop _shivering_ as his tongue plays against her skin. She missed this. Oh, did she miss this, and she holds on to the silk of his hair under her fingers until she's back in herself and steps back quickly, leaves Hans surging forward in the empty air trying to find her.

Her legs are a little shaky but Elsa sets her stance wide and sure, folds her arms. Looks down at him as Hans pulls himself back slow and jerky like a cog turning, the solid marble of his thighs shining like they've been polished, sinks his weight on his heels and sets himself upright again. His prick is as hard as ever, still aching after so long of this. The head is beaded white again as he spasms slightly, painfully close and only just holding on.

It's perfect. A grin plays in the slant of her lips, and Elsa shifts her balance to one foot and places the other on the underside of his cock, pushing it up to press against his stomach before stroking her toes down it experimentally. From up here she can appreciate the jump in his stomach muscles, rolling through him like a wave with every flinch and she wonders, faintly, how much stimulation he could take before he disobeyed her.

"You can come," she says, soft, presses a toe against the head of his cock and he does, barely even gasping as he shudders. His semen splatters across his chest and his thighs and her foot, sticky and hot.

Elsa pulls a face. Plants her foot back on the floor (it barely slips, and she'll deal with that in a minute) and watches him as he sinks back like a rope let slip through a winch, his head ducking forward and his shoulders drifting down - arms still wound behind his back because she hasn't said he can move yet but still, they slip an inch, too slick with sweat and fatigue to keep tight.

"Hey," she says, just to catch his attention, and his chin lifts, his lips parted and vulnerable as his chest heaves with every quick breath. 

The blindfold has bunched up over his temple, thickening just before it tucks over his ear, and it's slightly damp to the touch as she curls her fingers under the edge and pulls it off. The silk catches on his eyebrows and then his hair, reluctantly sticking to his skin until she tugs it, and when it's free she drops it to the side and watches him blink sleepily at the floor.

Elsa grins. "Clean me up," she says, and lifts her foot so it's hovering in his eyeline, off the floor but low enough that her balance is easy. His gaze flicks down to where her skin is dripping with his come. A beat, and then he surges forward to suck her toes into his mouth and, yeah, this is her favourite thing - how _eagerly_ he does whatever she tells him to, regardless of how humiliating it might be. 

He smooths his tongue over the top of her foot and between her toes and along the arch, whatever he can reach as he chases the taste of himself across her skin, and Elsa has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing but it's still wonderful to watch. _Prince Hans_ , she thinks, rolls the honorific across her tongue silently, and then pulls her foot away and sets it down toes first when she decides he's done.

"Very good," Elsa says, keeping her voice steady, and Hans blinks up at her, his face so open it's unreadable. His hands have slipped again, the angle of his arms like he can only be holding his wrists together, but that's okay - "You can let go," she says, and he sighs as his forearms drop, dead weight, and then winces as he brings his hands around to the front and rests them on his spread thighs. His cock hangs between them, still shining wet but softening, and he hardly seems to be aware of it at all as he rolls his neck, grimacing.

He's been almost silent though all of it, just a hitch in his breath when the pain jerks sudden and unexpected, and Elsa is, she can admit, impressed. It doesn't mean she's finished.

"Do it again," she says, and her mouth twitches wicked when he just lifts his head and looks at her, brows furrowed. She flicks her gaze down to his prick and back up again, in case he hasn't figured it out yet. "You can use your hands."

His face slackens. Elsa shifts her weight, folds her arms so she's loosely holding on to her elbows, and smiles down at him. "You promised to do whatever I said," she reminds him sweetly, something like genuine affection in her face and whatever resistance he had just _crumbles_.

Hans wraps his hand around his cock, wincing for a second because it's still sensitive even as it softens, and starts to work it slowly as he can. His other hand curls over his balls, fingertips tucking behind as his palm rubs light over the skin and he ducks his head and _concentrates_ \- bites his lip and closes his eyes, shuttering himself down for a long minute until his thickness starts slipping easier through his fingers, hardening again.

Elsa just watches him, uncoiled and tingly and infinitely powerful, and catches the shift in him when his eyes slip open as his head is still bowed and Hans is looking at her, where she stands a little off to the side with her legs pressed close together. 

His gaze lingers around her ankles and then he slowly starts to lift his head, his hand still slipping over his cock as his focus jumps up her joint by joint until he meets her eye and Elsa allows herself a smile, because he looks so _wrecked_ \- cheeks flushed red and glistening, eyes half-lidded, staring up at her with a slight crease between his eyebrows and his lip swollen from where he keeps biting it.

She'd keep him like this forever, if she could. His gaze pours back over her like rain, dripping down over her collarbone and her breasts and her stomach, pooling between her legs before running down the length of them and his hand slips faster, more urgently. Everything tenses and she knows he's almost there; he grits his teeth and squeezes him eyes shut as he clenches every muscle to stop himself from making a sound, and then come is rushing white and thick over his hand and he sucks in a breath, holds it until he's stopped spasming.

It's a long few seconds until he opens his eyes again, just the sound of his breathing pounding hard in the air, and Elsa is still smiling. He's not broken yet.

"Show me how you like it best," she says, and quietly adores the anguish that crosses his face. She assumes it's over-sensitivity or exhaustion or a warning that he's about to give in - but then there's a flush of heat when she realises it must be _embarrassment_ , as he switches his hands over and sucks two of his come-sticky fingers between his lips, mouthing at them until they're slick with salvia and then reaches around behind him, slipping low and out of sight. 

Hans bows his head and shudders suddenly, the hand around his cock starting to slowly pump it again. She can guess what he's doing but, oh, she didn't even know that was a _thing_.

Elsa takes a step to the side so she can watch him in profile, see the hand fisting his cock and the other that - yeah, she realises, heat suddenly flooding through her cheeks - that’s working his middle finger inside himself as he starts to rock his hips between them, his face drawn tight and determinedly not looking at her.

She presses her legs together tighter as her breathing starts to match his and she wants to study this, the broken line of his expression in sync the stuttery twists of his fingers. _This is what he likes best_ , she thinks, half-giddy with the knowledge and the fact that he's showing her something so filthy just because she asked him to.

His face starts to slacken, eyes shut and mouth open as he thrusts both hands in an uneven rhythm, shuddering little gasps every time his hand slips deeper, and, she's never seen him lose himself quite like this; somehow hardly aware that she's there at all anymore and hitching a jerky, almost-silent moan as he twists and nudges another finger inside himself. 

It feels impossibly warm, and he keeps going. His stomach jolts with the pressure and everything is flushed slick and red until suddenly his head falls back to face the ceiling and he's coming again, spilling over his hand as he groans choked and broken and undeniable, so _loud_ in the thick silence of her chamber. He milks himself through it, lost and eyes closed and hands still working and Elsa bites her lip, her chest heaving despite doing nothing but watching him. 

Silence seeps back in, just the jagged little gaps as Hans draws back into himself, blinking slow eyes open and staring at nothing until he twitches, horror dawning across his face. His gaze flashes to her, eyes heavy and desperate as his mouth works like he's trying to find an apology - Elsa never said he could make a sound.

She's never been so delighted to be disobeyed. He's trembling slightly, aftershocks thrumming through him as his hands drop to the side, and he's still looking at her, breathless and sleepy-eyed and stripped of everything. She wants to tell him that was wonderful, but her expression must be that carefully blank one she uses when she's thinking too much because a second passes and something shifts, shutters coming down as he drops his chin to his chest and then her only thought is _don't you dare_.

She reaches down, tucking two fingers under his chin to gently tilt his face up towards her before she strokes her hand over his cheek. 

"Good boy," Elsa says, one last time. She'll use it more sparingly after this, save it like a treat because she loves the way his whole body reacts to it every time, but suddenly he's hers again. He melts, present and unguarded and blinking slowly up at her. 

"We're done," she says, soft and honeyed, and his shoulders drop like a sail after a storm.

Hans licks his lips, swallows, finds his voice. "Thank you," he says, more a rush of air than words. Closes his eyes and leans his cheek into her palm, like he could fall asleep right there. 

Elsa glances towards the window, and she's almost surprised to find it's still the middle of the day. His cheek is warm, and damp with sweat, and perhaps the urge to be nice to him that beats in time with her pulse isn't quite so ridiculous at this moment, but that doesn't mean she has to give in to it.

"You can go," she says, pulling her hand away.

Hans slips an inch, catching himself immediately but still he presses a hand against the floor, splaying his fingers out like a ballast. "I think -" he starts, and inclines his head, turns towards the floor. "I'll just wait here for a minute," he says, breathy.

Something twists inside her. Elsa flicks her eyes to the ceiling, because she can't quite believe she's saying this, but, "If you clean yourself off, you can sleep on my bed for a while."

His breath rushes out sharp and surprised. "You're too kind," he says, but it sounds wrong, like a hunting knife blunted and presented like a gift, and he presses his lips together. "Thank you," he tries, instead, but that doesn't seem right either, and that's quite enough.

"Give me your hand," Elsa says, stepping close, and his fingers slip over her offered palm. She's, suddenly, oddly aware of how naked she is, despite being nothing but comfortable in her skin when he's the only one who can see her. She hauls him to his feet, catching him when bloodless muscles suddenly flood into feeling and she doesn't let her hand linger on the hard plane of his stomach, really - just pushes him towards the wash bowl, and focuses on reforming her dress.

When she's done, sheer blue covering her from wrist to collar bone and everywhere else thick and glittering, Elsa chances a look towards where Hans is turned away from her, wiping himself down with a cloth. She's almost surprised by the state of his bruises - a sickly, greenish yellow, blotchy and fading.

"Do they still hurt?" she asks, like she didn't quite mean to say that out loud. Hans glances back at her, water trickling down his shoulderblade.

"Not at all," he says. And then, perhaps at the tightness of her face, adds, "Touch them if you don't believe me."

Elsa frowns, looks away. "No, thank you. Please get dressed."

He does. His shirt has slipped onto the floor so he pulls on the breeches first, fastening them as loosely as possible, and when he reaches down to pick up his shirt he lets it hang between his fingers, glancing at her, like he's waiting for her mind to change.

"Go to sleep," Elsa says, instead of anything else fluttering through her head like moths. The flush in his cheeks has faded and spread, like it's soaking through his skin instead of draining away. 

The bedcovers shush under his hands as he climbs on, face down, pulling a pillow towards him and burying his face in it. He shifts as he melts into the mattress, curling a hand around the pillow and turning his head to the side, the dull bruises on his back turned towards her like an offering. Elsa just stays quiet as she watches him; the scant few minutes until his breathing is slow, and deep, and every angle of him is easy.

Her plans for the afternoon were a vague notion of finding Anna, making use of whatever happy ease she'd been left in, but, instead, she quietly walks over to the bed and picks up her book from the side table. Tells herself it's not really watching him if she's reading, and pads around to the other side to curl up against the headboard, tucking her legs underneath her and flipping open to the ribbon holding her place. Her gaze slips past the pages - his head is turned towards her, everything soft with sleep and completely unprotected, and she could do anything to him right now. 

Elsa reaches down, and strokes a long tuft of hair away from his face with her thumb. Her hand lingers, and then she snatches it back and focuses hard on the words.

A glint across the room catches her eye. She blinks, brows knitting as she ignores it, but something clicks at the back of her mind and she looks up, frowning. The ice shackles are still sitting on the middle of the table, glittering in the sunlight. 

Elsa lifts her chin, considering them for a moment - and then the shackles dissolve away with a flick of her hand.


	14. And the coolness of your smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [I Have Found What You Are Like by ee cummings](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1586/i-have-found-what-you-are-like).
> 
> i love you all <333

"You've been spending way too much time locked up in your room again," Anna says, the moment Elsa arrives in the breakfast room. "So we are going for a hike in the mountains."

Elsa opens her mouth to protest, question, something, and then closes it again. She can't deny it, even if she's tried not to notice how many excuses she's made about work in order to spend half the day in her chambers; her heels digging into Hans's back as his mouth worships her, her fingers tangled in his hair. At first it was just releasing all that _tension_ , the need to have him as urgently as possible now that she could - but it's been two weeks and every morning starts with the same urge to feel his skin against hers whether she satisfies it or not.

"Fine," Elsa says, carefully, and Anna beams at her. 

It's mid-morning by the time they get out of the castle. Elsa has changed out of her ice dress into something more suitable for a long walk up a mountain, strong boots and a long linen dress. Anna links her arm through the crook of Elsa's and jostles the sack slung over her back, stuffed with dried fruits and crispbreads and whatever else she could demand from the kitchens. It's been raining on and off all week but the sky is vibrant and clear and blue, like a promise of a perfect day, and Anna squeezes her arm and leads them through the town. 

"Kristoff's been showing me the best routes through the mountains," Anna says, as they climb up past the houses and start heading towards the trees. She tries to keep their pace quick even though she's the one that keeps stopping to say hello every time someone bows to them, and Elsa can't help but be fascinated by that - how eagerly she talks to anyone. The path narrows and twists as they walk, empty except for the occasional townsperson who smiles at Anna and bows jerky and surprised to her.

Anna doesn't seem to notice the difference. "This way is too thick to get through in the summer, but we should be okay since nothing's really growing yet," she says, like she's reciting, and Elsa smiles when Anna looks at her. She gets that, at least - she doesn't know how anyone could not smile while looking at Anna.

"It sounds perfect," she says.

They go up and up, high enough that snow is still piled in thick drifts off the main paths and crunching thinly under their feet, muddy and rock hard from endless melting and refreezing as the sun comes and goes. It's cold in the thick shade of the pine trees, even as the spring sun creeps up to midday and pulls back all the shadows. Anna chats constantly, stories about Olaf and the town and the few times Kristoff has taken her up to see the trolls again, and Elsa laughs and trudges on after her and can't hold back the thought that she needed this. 

"This is my favourite place on the mountain," Anna says, a few paces in front as the ground starts to level off and they find themselves in a clearing. The cliff rises steep and craggy on one side as a waterfall tumbles down it, sheer and wide until it hits the shallow stream that winds across the snow-spotted grass and spills off the lip of the hill. Arendelle shines far below, impossibly small, and Anna strides along the worn path, past the dips in the matted grass blue with frost, until her toes scuff against the rocky edge of the riverbank.

"Can it still be my favourite if I have more than one?" Anna asks, as Elsa draws up next to her. The water rushes loud past their feet, the snow melt swelling the river and sending it high and fast down the mountain, and the stepping stones shine wetly in the sun. Elsa rocks back half a step as the stream splashes up and catches the tip of her boot. "Because they kind of all look like this, except, you know, higher. And sometimes rockier."

"It's beautiful," Elsa says, and Anna smiles, bright and breathless. The pines shiver in the wind, something calling high and piercing in the distance as birds chirp hidden in the branches, and she feels grounded and untethered all at once, everything tingling with the sheer sense of _space_. "And peaceful."

"Yeah," Anna says, still grinning, and puts a foot towards the first stepping stone, skirts swishing as she prepares to hop across.

"And that doesn't mean you need to make this trip any more exciting by falling in," Elsa grimaces, catching Anna's arm and pulling her to stand safely at her side. Elsa clutches her hands into fists before shoving them forward, ice bursting into a neat little bridge with thick handrails and wide steps that spills over the water until it hits the ground on the other side. 

"I knew you would do that," Anna says, almost laughing as she races up the short stairs, sliding to a stop in the middle of the bridge and clinging to the ice with both hands as she watches the river rush underneath her.

"Oh?" Elsa says, gliding up to join her. "Is that why you brought me along? So you wouldn't get your feet wet?"

"Pssh," Anna says, pulling a face, and Elsa laughs, happy and easy, and maybe something has loosened in the thin air because she doesn't stop to think before she speaks. 

"Sometimes I forget there's a whole world out here," she admits, and there's an addendum to that, a name like a distant star that her thoughts keep orbiting around whether she notices it or not.

"Well, that's why you need to get out here more often. It can't be good for you to spend _all_ your time working, or in your chambers," Anna says, and Elsa looks at her just as she wrinkles her nose. "With _Hans_."

Everything plummets so suddenly that Elsa distantly thinks the bridge must have collapsed but no, it's fine, still solid, and Anna is walking off without another word, jumping down onto the opposite bank. "What?" Elsa calls, picking up her skirt to hurry after her. "What about him?" she says, and hopes the short run is excuse enough for how breathless she suddenly sounds. 

Anna glances at her, and huffs out a laugh as she rolls her eyes. "Nothing. I just think everyone sort of forgot he was there, but then there was the pointless escape attempt and whatever happened in the dungeons - " Elsa falters for a second, enough for Anna to get a couple of paces ahead before Elsa catches up again, " - and now he's right back where he's been for months and it's kind of weird, don't you think? What do you even do with him?" she asks, chewing on her bottom lip, smiling despite the knit of her brows. 

" _Nothing_ ," Elsa says, rushed and loud, and Anna slows as she looks sideways at her. They're back in the shade of the trees, frost crunching under their feet as something chirps high above them, and Elsa steadies herself, takes a quiet breath. "I just make sure his solitary confinement stays solitary," she says, and tries to weave logic through that thought until it's true. 

Anna is still looking at her, and there's the reason why Hans is the one gap in all their conversations about anything and everything - she can't _lie_ to her. Assurances die on her tongue and instead she finds herself saying, "Although I let him out, sometimes."

She looks down at her hands, twisting together. "Elsa," Anna says, and it takes her a moment to look up and find Anna gazing at her with a slight frown; still soft. "He doesn't deserve to have someone so nice being his jailer."

There's a laugh cloying in her throat, a stutter in her chest as she has the sudden, desperate need to confess. "It's not for him," Elsa says, and looks up at the trees, like the right way to explain it is hiding among the pine needles. "It's - I talk to him," she says. It's the barest sliver of truth but it's all she can find, the only hook between them that doesn't catch at the back of her throat.

"Ew, why?" Anna says, the shade cold enough to see the cloud of her breath, and when Elsa just bites her lip Anna links their arms together again, squeezing close. "If you're that desperate for someone to talk to I think Sven is always available," she says, and Elsa's bark of laughter comes sharp and surprised, pressing a hand to her mouth.

She can do this, if Anna keeps trying to make her laugh like that. Something rustles through the snow ahead of them, and the crush of ice under their feet is a steady, reassuring beat as she takes a breath and plucks up the words that are almost everything. "I want to find out how to make him be honest," Elsa says, and catches herself smiling as Anna wrinkles her nose again. 

"Wow. Yeah, you really need to get out more," Anna says, frowning, and Elsa studies her for a moment as Anna slips her arm away - the path reaches a twist in the mountain and turns steep and narrow for a short climb, just wide enough for one person at a time. 

"Is it okay, that he's still in Arendelle?" Elsa asks, as Anna hops up the rocks littered across the path like steps. "I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping him here, but... I didn't consider that maybe you might find just being in the same castle as him to be -"

"Elsa!" Anna cuts across, stopping just so she can catch her eye. The path is so steep she's almost a foot taller. "It's _fine_. I mean, I'm still angry, but it's the fun kind of anger where you just imagine terrible things happening to someone without feeling guilty about it," she says, and turns back around so she can carry on walking. 

"The fun kind of anger," Elsa echoes, and feels her cheeks flushing.

"Yeah," Anna says, like that was a question. "And it's been, what, almost a year?" she calls, over her shoulder.

"Not for a few more months," Elsa says, watching her footsteps. The path levels off again as it weaves through the forest, the trees so thick above them that the ground is clear and dry, and Anna slows so Elsa can catch up.

"Right. Well, I'm over it. You can keep him for as long as you want," she says, threading their arms together again. 

"I'm _not_ -" Elsa starts, and then sighs, decides not to push it. It's hard to be irritated by anything when Anna touches her so easily, like there's nothing dangerous about her skin. She mentioned it, once, trying for casual but mostly just sounding tired, and Anna had just hugged her tighter, face buried in her shoulder, and called her a stinker.

"Come on, we can get higher before we have to go home!" Anna says, and Elsa lets her lead the way.

The clouds draw in as the day wears on, and it's late afternoon by the time they find a clearing Anna deems suitable to have lunch in. They both perch on a fallen tree, the bark soft and red underneath their hands, and pick through the best of the food that survived the journey up there. 

"So," Anna says, just as Elsa takes a bite of an apple. She raises an eyebrow. "Kristoff kind of asked me to marry him. I think. I'm not exactly sure because he kept talking about the trolls and something about rolling with it, but, you know. I think he asked."

Elsa chews delicately. "Oh," she says. And then, "Is _that_ why you brought me up here? In case I freaked out in the middle of the town and set off another eternal winter?"

Anna throws a raisin at her. They don't talk about Hans again, and every time Elsa catches Anna looking at her she just beams easy and dazzling like sunlight on the ocean. 

Elsa stands up first, brushing crumbs out of her lap. She can see the furthest tip of Arendelle, and the fjord leading out into the sea, and the weather rolling in - she frowns.

"Those clouds look rather dark," Elsa says.

"Oh! Yeah, I figured we'd be home before the rain got here," Anna says, packing the leftover cheese into her bag and breaking up the bread to sprinkle on the snow. 

Elsa parses that. "You knew there was a storm coming?"

"Come on, it'll be fine!" Anna says, curling her fingers around the crook of Elsa's elbow, and sometimes Elsa worries about Anna's unwavering faith in everything. Anna starts to tug her in completely the opposite direction they came in. Elsa resists. "I know a different route down," Anna says, rolling her eyes. "This way we'll see the daffodil meadows, I think."

"It's not that I don't trust you," Elsa says, and she's lost, she knows it as Anna narrows her eyes. "This way's fine," she concedes, and hopes that as long as they're heading downhill there's nothing to worry about.

They're still winding their way down the mountainside as the sunset starts to paint the grey clouds peach and gold and lilac. The air smells like biting cold and dew on dry earth, and Anna entwines their fingers as the sun dips down until it's just a peek of burnt gold between the distant mountains.

"Did you bring a lantern?" Elsa asks, and sighs at the wince that Anna gives. She makes a snowball, the kind of glowing potential that she can throw into anything, and holds it in her free hand to give them just enough light to not walk into any trees. The sky rolls in to a thick, pulsing blue, darkness falling quickly down the mountainside.

It's not long before the rain starts; at first with fine drizzle that sticks to her cheeks, and then between the shelter of one clump of trees to the next it gets heavier, huge drops that make her jump every time they hit the back of her neck and turn into slush as they splash over the snowball. Elsa clamps her hand around it and makes it sink back into nothingness when they reach the outskirts of town and hurry on, the light spilling out from the houses enough to light the path.

They're almost at the cobbled street leading into the center of town when the sky crackles, and suddenly it's a roaring downpour. Elsa shrieks and Anna's hand starts to slip against hers as the rain hammers down, but Anna just holds on tighter and laughs as she tugs her into a run, slipping over the cobbles together as they dash through the gates and across the courtyard. 

They tumble through the huge main doors, laughing and dripping wet and still holding hands, and find themselves face to face with a small crowd of guards and servants and Kristoff. 

"Oh, thank goodness," Gerda says, pressing a hand to her chest. "We were just about to send out the guards."

"Oh," Anna says, and laughs breathlessly. Kristoff rushes to her side, and she leans against him like a wall as she pulls off her boots.

"We're fine," Elsa says, drawing herself up. Everyone is looking at her, and if anyone disapproves of her rain-flattened hair or the muddy hem of her dress it doesn't show on their faces - all concern and relief rather than chastisement. "Although warm baths would be nice."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I'll have hot water brought up straight away," Gerda says, and turns to go.

"Get Anna's ready first," Elsa says, and Anna's protest is shushed by both her and Kristoff.

Elsa goes alone to her dressing room. She peels herself out of her wet dress and wraps herself up in a bathrobe, settling into the chaise longue by the gently flickering fireplace as she waits.

Her dressing room is next door to her chamber, accessed from the corridor instead of her room because the generations of her family have alternated between expansive reworkings of the rooms and making do with what's already there, and other than the alternation of the storage room to Hans's cell she doesn't have the heart to change anything, quite yet. It's not like she uses it, that often, anyway - she wears her ice more often than not, cloaking herself in the reminder of her powers, and she doesn't need to leave her chamber to decide how to design her dress each day.

It might have been a mistake, sitting down; she can feel herself sinking into the cushions, every sore muscle aching to be stretched, her head dipping against the solid wooden top as she watches the flames. She thinks about Anna, and Kristoff, and then her thoughts drift to Hans in the way they always do when she catches herself unguarded, no focus as she blinks slowly at the fire.

She jumps when the door opens, jerking upright and swinging her legs down to the floor as two servants come in, carrying pails of steaming water between them.

"Apologies, ma'am," the girl says, and Elsa is too tired to do anything but smile reassuringly.

Elsa keeps the bath quick and vigorous, because if she relaxes at all she will fall asleep in the water. She rinses the rain out of her hair and scrubs at the mud splattered up her calves and climbs out once the warmth has seeped all the way down to her bones, towels off and slips on the the first nightgown she finds. It's shorter than her usual one, skimming around her knees, and then, because no one's looking, she flips her hair upside down and runs her hands through it to turn all the water to snow, brushing it out and letting it melt in front of the fireplace. It falls long and cold and silky against her bare neck as she flips back up. 

The lights in the corridor are low and faint as she slips between rooms, and in her chambers there's only the fireplace, lit long enough ago that it's spilling out more heat than light, and a single oil lamp by her bed. There's a light supper on the dining table, brought in some time while she was washing, and Elsa doesn't even sit down to pick through it. 

The rain is still howling down outside, pounding against her window in flurries and gusts as she finally climbs into bed. She's half-asleep already, feeling warm and tingly and there's a faint pull between her legs, a tension low in her stomach -

"Oh, no," Elsa groans, and rolls over to bury her face in a pillow. She wants to _sleep_. It's been barely even a day since she last felt that release and she's been spoiling herself, letting herself have him whenever she feels the urge, but that doesn't mean she _has_ to. 

The bedcovers shift as she draws her knees up and presses her thighs together, breathing deep and slow and keeping her hands far away from her body as she concentrates on how comfortable she is, the heaviness of her eyelids, how easy it would be to ignore the pulse that aches between her thighs. Forcing relaxation into every smarting muscle.

She lasts almost two minutes of furiously trying to go to sleep before she gives up. 

Elsa sighs, and lets her hand slip down between her legs - until she remembers the way her thoughts drifted last time she did that and snatches it back, pulling at the hem of her nightgown. _Hans_ , she thinks, and grimaces. She hasn't seen him since that morning, when she told him only that she would be out all day, probably, and passed through enough food to last until tomorrow. 

What's the point, she thinks, of having him right next to her chamber if she can't have him whenever she wants?

The ice door stands dark, the faintest shimmer reflecting from the fire, and she slips out of bed and pulls it open so carefully it makes hardly a sound. The shape of him in the darkness shifts, barely enough light to see the blanket pulled up over his chest, and Elsa knocks lightly on the doorframe to catch his attention. She leans against it as she waits.

"Elsa?" he says, not as sleep-rough as she expected. The blanket shushes as he pushes himself up to seating. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, light and honest. "I'm just..." Elsa starts, and maybe today is the day for almost-honesty, or maybe she's just too tired to think of an euphemism, because she finishes with, "I want you. Your mouth. Now."

It's too dark to see his expression. "Okay," he says, and gets up. 

Elsa turns and goes back to bed, leaves the covers pulled back and piles the pillows up against the headboard, settling into them as Hans pads across the room, bare feet and no shirt and his breeches only fastened loosely. She hasn't let him on the mattress since that one moment of weakness, but she's sleepy and for once she just wants to be nothing but comfortable as she gets off.

He runs a hand through his hair, already ruffled from sleep, and there's a beat where he just looks at her from beside the bed - her hair is loose and spilling over her shoulders, her nightgown brushing the top of her thighs and she spreads her legs a little wider, draws up one knee and splays her hands out either side. The oil lamp burns low on the table, a steady glow that sets everything thickly shadowed and golden.

"You look beautiful," he says, and Elsa bites the inside of her cheek.

"Either get on with it or go back to your cell," Elsa says, but it lacks any bite and Hans is on the bed and kneeling between her legs in moments, wrapping a hand around her knee and kissing his way down her thigh so quick that her stomach flutters, like the swoop of a sudden short drop. 

There's the barest scratch of stubble against her skin as he trails down, and when his mouth ghosts over her pressure point she sighs and lets herself slip down into it, catching the thick push of his tongue as her shoulders find the pillow, her head propped up so she can watch him. She stares down through sleep-heavy eyes and traces the arch of his back, the way his toes curl against the mattress and catch over the rolls of the covers.

He's pleasingly eager despite the late hour - curling both hands around her thighs and using just his mouth to work her open, his tongue teasing light circles around that pulsing ache before sucking hard and focused. It's sweet and slow and she keeps melting down until her head is on the pillow and her hips are off the bed as he worships her, utterly in his hands. 

When Elsa comes she barely makes a sound, so warm and sprawled and comfortable that there's just the barest happy gasp as everything tightens and crashes out like a wave, and she can't see his face right now but she can feel it when Hans smiles, his cheeks pulling back against her skin. He lets her pelvis sink back down into the mattress, holding her carefully. Her nightgown has rucked up so far it just covers her chest.

"Okay," Elsa says, breathless and eyes closed, and he keeps going with small, sweet kisses against her core, the lightest flicks of his tongue that send aftershocks through her flesh. She blindly finds his hand curled around her thigh and grabs it, urging him up as she says his name like a warning. 

Hans slips out from under her leg and goes, falling up the bed until he's lying by her side, their fingers tangled together on the pillow. Elsa blinks her eyes open to look at him - he's between her and the lamp, his skin all shadows and reflected highlights, but he looks nothing but soft as he gazes down at her. 

"I've never seen you like this," he says, almost in wonder, catching a long rope of pale hair between his fingers. "I like it," he murmurs, close to her ear, and then he's kissing her neck as his hand skims down to her stomach, a faint thrill following his fingertips as she just lets herself feel, sinking loose and easy into the bed. She's too close to sleep to hide anything, and she pulls a face as his mouth slips slick over her throat, still wet from her. Hans laughs quietly against her skin.

She should send him back to his cell. It's late, the rain pattering quiet and soothing against the window, and Hans is kissing her throat and her fingers are still curled around his and this feels stupidly right, somehow, but she will. She'll just...

She'll just close her eyes for a minute.

 

Elsa wakes in the deep lost blue between late night and early morning. Everything is still and dark and there's a weight over her side, her back pressed up and warm against something - and the knowledge of what's happened is right there at the front of her mind, but it's still a dizzying two seconds of lightening-fast recall to figure _what's happened_.

Hans breathes slow and deep behind her, oblivious to the world but his arm is thrown over her waist and his hand is curled loosely around hers, his weight warm and solid and heavy all around her. When she shifts she can feel her nightgown pulling tight over her thigh, caught by something, and the covers are over them, and Hans is _in her bed_.

If she tilts her head she can see just a slice of the window - there are stars, no clouds left in the night sky, and she must have been asleep for hours. The lock on her chamber door is just a single key that anyone could turn and she was down so deeply she didn't even dream and he could have done anything, but - he's still here. _Cuddling_ her.

She's not awake enough to deal with this. There's a feeling in her chest kind of like when Anna does something ridiculous just to make her laugh. Elsa shifts and finds herself, somehow, more firmly pressed against him, and she doesn't have the clarity of mind to move again.

The sound of her sigh is the loudest thing in the room. Her eyes drift shut, and she lets herself fall asleep.


	15. the reckless magic of your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [My Love Is Building A Building](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1622/my-love-is-building-a-building/).
> 
> sadsfdhf you are all so nice to me I actually don't know how to deal. *buries face in hands and blushes* 
> 
> p.s. have you seen the scar on Hans' cheek? i am obsessed with it. (you can see a pale, jagged sideways V pretty clearly on the left in [this gifset](http://onlylostphysics.tumblr.com/post/86895152927))

Elsa wakes when the sunlight is streaking long over the foot of her bed, her arm oddly warm and something digging into her side, trapped between her and the mattress. She's used to waking somewhere in the early twilight, everything soft and blue, but she finds herself squinting in the brightness and levering up before she's even entirely thinking, arching her waist away from the thick press underneath it.

 _Hans_. His arm, wrapped around her and caught at some point in the night. Her hand is on his bare chest. Her head was on the pillow next to his, her mouth next to his shoulder, and now she's up on her elbow and looking down at him as he sleeps soundly _in her bed_. He twitches in his sleep, and there's the flutter of his fingertips against the top of her thigh, the barest brush of a tease but it's enough to make her realise exactly how his hand is curled underneath her, his palm ghosting over her bare skin.

She pushes up higher on her elbow, rolling her hip forward to free his arm because she has to _move_. What she let herself have in the timeless darkness is new and untested and beyond anything she let herself consider in the early morning sun, and - he held her throughout the night, she thinks. There's not a snowflake to be seen, and it's been a long time since a nightmare sent her heartbeat racing like a snowstorm, but what _if_ -

Elsa catches herself almost tipping over, her thigh pressing against his and the hand on his chest splaying out like a ballast. And, then, she's close enough to see the shadow of his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, the freckles lost in the permanent blush, the faint jagged scar that sits over his cheekbone. Her eyes trace the contours of his skin, caught.

It's the second time in as many weeks she's found herself watching him sleep. His chest rises steady and rhythmic under her arm and his head is turned towards her, his mouth a soft line. He's still wearing his breeches, she realises - a drag of cotton against her knee as she draws her leg up an inch, shifting comfortably as she can't seem to stop looking at him, and heat prickles her skin. She doesn't know why she's so flustered by that - the odd modesty, perhaps, the sense of decorum of staying in her bed at least half-dressed.

Elsa sighs, quiet in the warm air. She's still contemplating him as he wakes up, absently drawing circles with her thumb; watches the sleep slip off him by degrees and the way his lips part as his eyes open, how they find her when they're still half-lidded and dark with sleep, and the soft, genuine smile he makes when he sees her. It's so small it's hardly a thing - more a brightening of his whole face instead of just something in his mouth, impossible to fake, and she feels quite dizzy with a rush of something in response.

"Morning," Hans says, caught rough somewhere low in his throat, and he wets his lips as he looks at her, a brief flash of tongue and Elsa really, definitely needs to move. He lifts his opposite hand to his chest, fingers curled like he's going for an itch and when he finds her hand instead his face does something fascinating, where it shifts and somehow becomes even brighter without much moving.

The green around his pupils is distractingly vivid. Elsa bites her lip, pushes up a little higher on her arm so she's completely free from the hand trapped underneath her - and Hans uses it to drift his fingers up her thigh, slipping easily under the hem of her nightgown and skimming up along her spine as he gazes at her, flushed warm and dark-eyed and transfixed. Her hand is still caught between his palm and his chest, his thumb tracing patterns over her fingers, and her eyes flick down to his mouth. 

"I - have a lot of work to do this morning," Elsa says, and rolls away. 

She gets to the other side of the bed, flinging the sheet away from her legs before Hans chases; caught by a hand that wraps around her bare stomach where her nightgown has ridden up and his lips brushing over her jaw. Elsa turns her head away (instead of _pushing him away_ , like she should, but -) and his mouth finds her neck instead, wet little kisses that settle somewhere down near the base of her spine.

She only closes her eyes for a moment, but it's enough of a surrender that Hans curls closer, his hand smoothing up around her ribs and his thigh slipping between hers, almost pinning her to the bed as he licks over her collarbone. Elsa clutches at his shoulder and doesn't tell him to stop because every inch of her is suddenly _awake_ and thrumming with the need for this, the heat of his mouth and the tingling pressure at every point where his skin touches hers. 

He murmurs her name against her throat, the vibration sinking down into her blood, and then Hans catches her skin between his teeth, and _sucks_.

Elsa yelps, high and strangled. In seconds she's caught both his wrists and kicked him away, barging him with a hip so he's flung onto his back and she follows, swinging a leg over to straddle his waist and pin both hands above him on the pillows. Her chest heaves as she glowers down at him, her hair loose and spilling around her face like a curtain, her nightgown bunched up over her thighs.

"Sorry?" Hans tries, trapped in the sudden stillness as Elsa narrows her eyes, considers what to do with him. Thinks, sudden and unbidden, of Anna telling her to spend less time in her chambers.

She smirks, and Hans's uneasy smile drops like a stone.

Elsa sits upright, her weight settling solid over his hips as she lets his hands free and Hans doesn't move, watching her with wide eyes that soften and flood dark as she grabs the hem of her gown and pulls it off. It becomes a thick rope as she twists it between her hands, and then Elsa's looming over him, naked and magnificent as she loops it around his crossed wrists and fixes the fabric to the headboard with ice that spreads thick and swirling from under her palm.

Hans is just staring at her when she shifts back, gaze running up from her navel to her eyes as as a warm flush creeps up his cheeks. "Why not just ice?" he says, straining to sound anything less than breathless and awed.

She grins. "You're going to be here for a while," Elsa says, and grabs his jaw to turn his head to the side as she leans down, pressing chest to chest and nuzzling the curve of his throat. His skin pulses warm under her lips, the slightest questioning sound rumbling under her lips as Hans tries to keep up, and she lets herself taste him, savouring it; trailing her mouth down the line of his neck before she finds the perfect spot above his collarbone, and then she bites. 

Hans groans and bares his neck, tilting his jaw away as his skin stretches like a canvas and Elsa does it again, moves a little closer to the hollow of his throat and purses her lips and sucks so hard he gasps, blood blooming under his skin. Again, and again; finding where the skin is easier to catch and the spot under his jaw that makes his chest stutter when she brushes her lips over it like a kiss, and then she turns his head the other way and starts just under his ear, her hand curling around his neck as Hans moans desperate and encouraging.

When she glances up his eyes are closed and his lips are parted, blissfully slack as the trail of her mouth burns red. Her smile slips wide, and then Elsa bites her lip, lifting her hips so she can look down the length of him and see how achingly hard he is under his breeches, straining thick against the cotton. 

_Wonderful_ , Elsa thinks, and then latches her mouth over the apex of his collarbone and shifts her knees down, pressing her core over the trapped hardness of him. Her breath catches, heat flooding up through her as he presses solid against her sensitive flesh and for a moment she grinds down without thinking - but no, that's perfect, as Hans whimpers and jerks his hips up to meet her and she grins into his skin, rolling her hips with a silky kind of precision.

It's almost everything. She trails her fingers up his neck to twist in his hair and force his head back, sinks her teeth into the thick of his shoulder and Hans whines, his hips jerking in that shuddery way that means he's so close to coming - 

And Elsa stops. Her mouth leaves his skin with a dry pop and she lifts her hips, rising up until the only touch of her skin against his is her hands splayed over his chest, the warm shudder quick against her palms. Elsa watches him, pinned and desperate beneath her as he blinks his eyes open and gazes hard up at her, brows knitted tight as he tries to read her through the haze of _need_ \- and then she swings her leg back over, and climbs off the bed.

"I do have a lot to be getting on with this morning," Elsa says, and smiles. Hans doesn't even look surprised; comprehension dawning slow and then he's exhaling sharply, turning away and letting his head fall back against the pillows. 

Elsa ignores that for the moment. She sweeps her hair out of the way with one hand and pulls ice out of the air to make her dress, spilling out from her waist to skim long and layered down to the floor and swirling sparkling over her chest. 

There's the slightest red mark on the side of her neck, barely even noticeable. Elsa peers at it in her dressing table mirror, brushing two fingers over her skin in something like wonder, before she frowns and sets to braiding her hair in the usual way to cover it neatly. Her footsteps ring measured as she crosses back over to the bed, hovering by the side as she tries not to consider if this is a terrible idea. 

"I'll be back in a while," Elsa says, and Hans looks at her for a long, silent moment before he presses his lips together and stares at the canopy above her bed, drawing his knees up. Elsa twists her mouth to the side - and then she grabs his jaw and turns his face away, his cheek warm and pliant and a little prickly under her lips as she presses a kiss to his cheek like a final blow, and she doesn't linger to see the stunned way he watches her leave. 

The door locks behind her. Elsa hides the little silver key under the high neckline of her dress, and goes to have breakfast with Anna. 

 

His breakfast tray is waiting outside her door when she comes back an hour later. Elsa glances at him once - still lying there, his legs flat on the bed, eyes closed and face turned towards the window, caught glowing in the sun - before she busies herself with more important things. The door locks quietly. The tray clatters down on the table, between a half-finished letter and the scraps of last night's dinner, and Elsa toes off her shoes as she taps a finger on the paper. Makes a choice between work and Hans.

"Hi," she says, padding barefoot across to the bed, and Hans cracks open one eye and then the other to look at her. His neck is a mess of bite marks, the outline of his cock soft under his breeches, and his arms are still caught above his head - but his wrists are pale and smooth, untouched by the whorls of frost creeping glitter across the wood. 

"My queen," Hans says, regarding her carefully as she drifts her hand along the edge of the bed. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

Elsa just smiles, considering him. He looks scandalous and gorgeous and thoroughly used, and she's been slick and eager for it the whole past hour; there wasn't any choice at all. Her dress dissolves away and she climbs onto the bed, straddling his shoulders, and the hand running through his hair as he gazes up at the pale column of her is all the warning he gets before she drags his mouth between her legs.

" _Elsa_ ," he breathes, lost in her skin and stubble scratching soft along her thighs, and she adores the way the way he moans loud and unabashed as he works his tongue inside her, digging her nails into his scalp as she urges him up to that tight ache. He mouths at her hungrily, just lips and tongue and wet heat, pressing as wide as possible before flicking the tip of his tongue against the nub of her sex.

She sighs happily, holding him in place with both hands as the intensity builds so rapidly it's almost startling. Her pelvis rocks over his tongue and there's a shiver in her bones before she comes hard and breathless and groaning something intelligible, and there's a weakness in her fingers when she lets go of his hair, blindly clinging onto the headboard for a minute. She's hardly aware of Hans pressing kisses along the inside of her thigh until there's the scrape of his teeth, catching painlessly at her skin. 

"Don't," Elsa says, breathy but clear and Hans stops, blinking up at her before she lets go of the wood and sits back on his chest, her core slipping silky against his torso. Hans licks his lips, slow and deliberate.

"Would you like breakfast?" Elsa says, as her fingers catch over his collarbone. Hans watches her with pink cheeks and his mouth shining.

"That wasn't it?" he says, and grins when Elsa blinks in surprise, still capable of flushing red even as she sits naked and shameless on top of him. The ice holding his wrists to the headboard dissolves with a wave of her hand and she pushes on his shoulders as she rolls her hips to the side, curling her legs underneath her and biting her lip as her swollen skin rubs close.

Hans circles his wrists as the makeshift rope falls away. He pushes up and shifts back so he's sitting level with her, legs splayed out and crossed at the ankle, and the bed dips as he angles himself toward her. His weight is on the hand that rests inches from hers. 

This was as far as her plan for the morning went - a teasing kind of punishment and proving that she could keep him exactly where she wants while still being seen outside of her chamber, and now she doesn't know what to do with him.. 

"You should shave," Elsa says, before Hans can say anything else, and reaches up to brush her thumb over his jaw as though to prove it. Hans leans into it, blinking slow at her. 

"My apologies," he says, and then he catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before he jumps off the bed and gathers up the shaving things from beside the wash bowl on the other side of her chamber.

"Will you be staying to keep an eye on me?" Hans says, calling lightly over his shoulder as he arranges the kit on the table. Elsa frowns at his back, her mouth pulled to the side, and then stands up to redress herself.

"I have some time until my next appointment," she says, and Hans turns to look at her, flashing an unreadable smile before he sets to grooming. Elsa considers it for a moment, the angle of him that she can just see the edge of his face as he starts to smooth the razor over his jaw, and there's no point at all in sitting opposite him while he works - so she picks up her book and curls up against the headboard again, hardly glancing at him at all.

It's a split-second shock when she looks up and he's not there, the table clear except for the covered tray and her ignored papers. Her book snaps shut and then he's there, emerging from the cell in a dark pair of trousers and a loose white shirt. 

"What?" Hans says, when he finds Elsa's narrowed eyes fixed on him. She runs her eyes over him and then looks away, finds her place in the pages again, and is pindrop aware of his soft laugh as he crosses back over to the table and pulls the tray an inch closer, squaring it up with the edge of the table.

There's a dull clatter as he puts the silver cover on the wood, and then instead of the sound of the chair being pulled out there's footsteps, and Elsa looks up, just as the mattress dips and Hans places the tray between them. The small spread of preserved fruits and cheese and bread slides a fraction as Hans rearranges the pillows and sits next to her.

"It has been far too long since I had breakfast in bed," Hans says, his smile bright and leading. 

Elsa thinks of his cell, and frowns. "Well," he amends, "In a bed I enjoy sleeping in."

Hans balances the tray over his outstretched legs and starts to eat regardless of the way Elsa is looking at him, brows furrowed and mouth a thin line. Her book has fallen shut, resting in one hand and her place held only by her thumb, and then she huffs a laugh and reaches over to steal a slice of apple and pop it in her mouth, grinning at him when he looks at her sharply.

"If you insist on sharing my bed then your food is fair game," she says, and Hans takes another bite and chews it carefully as he looks off to the side, a parody of contemplation.

"It all tastes like you, anyway," he says, skewing his mouth into a smile as he catches her eye, and Elsa's eyes widen before she reaches over to cover his face with her hand and push it away, so he can't see the blush in her cheeks - because despite everything she's not used to him being so _explicit_. Perhaps it's her fault; last night's upfront _I want your mouth_ the new baseline of this thing between them, permission to be as provocative as he wants.

His laugh rushes warm over her palm, going easily. She flips her book open as she pulls back, focusing on the words instead of whatever expression he's making, and furiously does not think about all the times she's seen Anna do the same childish move on Kristoff. 

The silver tray gets pushed onto the bedside table when he's finished. "How long until you have to go?" Hans asks, catching her attention with the pads of two fingers skimming over her bare knee. 

Elsa glances at him, her legs stretched out in front of her. "Not long," she admits, and isn't surprised at all when his fingers curl around her leg, urging them apart. She lets him, until he's kneeling beside her and drifting his fingertips along her skin, edging under her dress.

"Wait," she says, and his eyes narrow a fraction. Elsa drops her book blindly to the side as she swings her legs around, pushing herself up onto her knees and then she's in his lap, straddling his thighs as his hands find her waist.

"Oh," Hans says, as Elsa flashes him a wicked twist of a smile before tangling her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and urging his head back, latching her mouth over the pale underside of his jaw. 

His groan purrs against her lips. She sucks at his skin until she can feel his pulse on her tongue, feel the split-second grip of his hands clutching her sides before he gets himself under control, and Elsa spreads her knees wider so she can roll her hips into him, relentless until he's pressing urgently hard up against her. 

Hans moans her name, and she could quite happily spend the rest of the morning right here, teasing him horribly, but there's a council meeting to attend, and there's her promise to Anna - then, oh, she thinks. Of course. She doesn't have to be _here_ to keep him desperately on edge. 

Elsa follows that thought, as she trails her lips down his throat and feels him whine beneath her: it's not about punishment, or just about keeping him restrained and where she wants him. The idea of him tied up and aching for her while she carries on with her duties sparks tight above her core, surprisingly wonderful, everything she needs to know that she _wants_ it.

She grins against his skin and then lets go of his hair, pushing Hans down to sprawl across the bed. He goes easily, mesmerised by her mouth and his fingers slipping down from splaying warm across her back to ghost along her thighs, and then Elsa catches his wrists, and pins them above his head again.

Hans groans. She's not moving at all but still touching him everywhere, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. His breath rushes damp across her cheek as she leans close.

"I suppose you have a choice," Elsa says, and she knows it isn't a fair one when she's holding him down like this, her mouth brushing warm over his skin. "I could keep you tied up here, or you could stay unrestrained in your cell," she says, pausing to press her lips under his jaw and delight in the way he moans, quiet and anguished. "And in only one of those options am I going to let you come when I get back," she whispers, breathless in her own daring.

"Here," Hans breathes, immediately. "I'll stay right here."

"Are you sure? I could be gone for hours," she says, faux-soft and murmured behind his ear. She's fearless and shameless and capable of anything, holding him down with the lightest touch.

"I'll wait," he says, half lost in a sigh.

She lets her smile bloom wide, and then pulls away entirely and sits back on her heels. "Get up against the pillows," Elsa says, and Hans scrambles to obey. He falls onto his back and throws his arms above his head so his fingers are almost touching, and she settles herself across his waist as she wraps the rope of her nightgown around his wrists and fixes it to the headboard again.

Elsa considers him for a long second, as his chest heaves underneath her and he watches the curl of her lips, and then, carefully, she leans close and nudges her mouth against his ear. "Good boy," she whispers, and she can feel the way Hans melts completely, sprawling out despite the straining thickness in his trousers. The last bruise she left on his throat pulses warm against her lips before she climbs off the bed.

Her dress spills neatly down to her feet. She checks herself in the dressing table mirror, fixing the flyaways of her hair with a sheen of ice, and then she spares Hans one last smile and sweeps out the room.

She is going to have a _wonderful_ day.

 

Two hours and change pass before she comes back again, unlocking the door with the key she's kept under her bodice. Hans looks asleep when she crosses over to the bed but he opens his eyes immediately, blinking up at her, and there's something soft in his expression that blooms warmth all the way through her. 

“Hi,” he says, a smile caught in the corner of his mouth. The midday sun spills bright through her chamber, setting everything glowing and the shadows small, and Elsa reaches over to brush the hair away from his forehead.

She's getting sloppy with her affection, she thinks, lost in her own eagerness to touch him, and perhaps she should do something about that. The problem is, always, that she _wants_ , and with every inch she allows herself she finds there's acres more that she could have, that Hans is desperate to give her. She believes the honesty of that, at least - the desperation in the slant of his mouth, the arch of him pressing close to her as possible. The fact that he wants everything she does to him will, apparently, never stop sparking something wonderful.

Every satisfied curiosity just finds even more ways she wants him.

Her dress is gone between one breath and the next, crawling up onto the mattress and straddling his hips. She unbuttons his shirt and pulls it wide as his face falls open and waiting, vulnerable without calculation, and her nails scratch thoughtlessly across his chest. It's not quite enough to draw a noise out of him but he tenses and shifts, readiness flooding through him. Hans opens his mouth and -

"Stay quiet," Elsa says, and Hans bites the middle of his lip and nods. 

She rewards him with a smile. Her fingers work through the buttons on his trousers without looking, yanking them down to bunch around the middle of his thighs before she wraps a hand around his half-hard cock and Hans shivers, his bare skin pressing against the inside of her legs as he can't stop himself from shifting with each drag of her hand. The ice creaks as he strains against the bonds, arced and tense and desperately eager as his eyes slip shut and Elsa studies him. 

Everything's slick and hot already, his prick pulsing steady warmth through her palm as he hardens enough to dip against her core, the head slipping blunt along her folds, and Elsa watches the twitch of his eyelids as she presses him inside. There's the flex of his fingers, the way his back hardly touches the bed as he pushes up to meet her, and she can feel the thickness of him stretching her perfectly as she sinks all the way down. 

"God, _Hans_ ," she murmurs before she can think, too lost in feeling to stop herself, and he groans almost silently - a stutter in his chest that rumbles long and dark as Elsa rolls her hips shallow, pale circles blooming across his shoulders as she reaches up to steady herself and digs her fingers in.

All she can see are his pupils, shining like wet ink. She rocks forward and sets the pace like that, slow and teasing and entirely for her, finding the nerve endings buried deep and using him to spark golden in her flesh. He sighs, rough and moaning, every time her hips slide back over his.

Every point where they're pressed together is slick with sweat, and Hans has been on edge for _hours_ \- Elsa keeps it as light and slow as a breeze and still it's not long until he's bucking helplessly up into her, so obviously close, and she watches his brows knit tight as he braces himself for the inevitable moment of her telling him to stop.

She leans close. Her chest brushes against his as she latches her mouth over the curve of where his neck meets his shoulder, and Hans keens, thrusting up into her with everything he has - and her teeth sink in as she clenches around his cock and Hans comes sudden and so hard she can feel him spilling inside her, arching away from the mattress as every muscle strings taut. 

Elsa grins as he moans sweet and strangled and pressed tight up against her, and then he slumps and slips away, his cock almost pulling out of her, and she can't have that. She slams down and revels in his groan, sensitive in the afterglow, and nudges her mouth up to his ear.

"Finish me off," she whispers, and his wrists slip free of the suddenly loose bonds. He doesn't hesitate - a hand curls over her ass and he works the other down between them, finding the nub of her as she rocks down the still-hard length of him, exquisitely full. 

Hans circles two fingers over her pressure point as Elsa sucks at his skin, forcing a bruise to the surface to expand the collar of her possession. She lets herself sink into it, lets him work her until she's shaking and gasping wetly into his neck, hiding the radiancy of her smile as she comes; and when she's done she lets herself fall against him and relax, the fingers wrapped tight around his shoulders skimming down his arms.

Elsa turns her head so her cheek rests on his shoulder, and when she opens her eyes she can see the line of his jaw and the dark fuzz of his sideburns. His neck is littered with the trail of her mouth, garish and scattered, but she finds she doesn't mind at all as she drifts her fingertips across his throat.

Mine, she thinks. Hans makes a noise, pooling low in his ribcage until it works its way up to his mouth, and there's the tentative touch of his hand curling around the back of her neck, resting in her hair. 

"You've marked me," he says, and Elsa just hums in agreement. "Did you think there was some doubt over who I belonged to?" Hans says, teasing, but she's too caught up in the rush of heat to respond. It's not something new, but hearing it out loud makes her want to prove it all over again.

"You could just put a leash on me and lead me around the castle," he muses, and her breath comes out huffed and amused.

"No," Elsa says, catching her lip between her teeth. "Because I think you would enjoy it."

Hans laughs. His free hand smooths over her side and wraps around her back, holding her as she lies mostly on top of him, and she doesn't want to move. He's still inside her, her core swollen warm and sticky and she shifts up until he slips out, finds her mouth next to his ear. 

The hand that was caressing his throat drifts up into his hair. If she stays right here she will fall asleep and miss whatever it if she's supposed to be doing this afternoon - and that's the thought that convinces her to move, to untangle herself from his arms and straighten hers so she can rise up above him, because the whole point of this is that she can have both, whenever she wants. 

"You can go back to your cell," Elsa says, looming over him, and everything about him slumps in defeat. 

"If you tie me up again, could I - ?"

"No," Elsa says, and climbs off him. Her feet touch the floor and she's dressed before he's sat up, tucking himself away before buttoning up his trousers. His shirt hangs open and falling off his shoulders, snagging tight around his arms, but she doesn't help him fix it. 

The door to his cell stands wide and blue and open, glittering in the sunlight, and Elsa wraps her hand around the edge of it as she pretends she isn't waiting for him. His footsteps pad slow across the room, almost childishly so, and, perhaps, he does deserve something after obeying her whims so well.

"Hold on," Elsa says, just as he passes her. Hans stops, half turning, and then she's pressing a hand against his chest and pushing him back against the doorframe. Her mouth finds his throat, one last bruise soaking into his skin as Hans sighs and lifts his jaw, his hands curling around the top of her arms for the long moment before she pulls away and waits for him to step inside his cell.

"I'll see you at dinner," Elsa promises, as Hans presses his lips together. She steps back, sealing the door between them with a curl of her fingers, and doesn't linger on the itch to dissolve it entirely.


	16. a one-man shift in the weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Hope On Fire - Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3Ua5DBj6Hw).
> 
> I am forever amazed and grateful that people enjoy this fic so much. Thank you!! I can't promise to meet anyone's requests, but I swear hand on heart that I will never abandon this fic. (there are, maybe, four or five chapters until the end, and there are things coming that will hopefully please some people. :D? )
> 
> A couple of notes:  
> It's traditional for ruling monarchs to address each other as cousin, because royalty is weird.  
> The name of King Christian comes from [Christian VIII of Denmark](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_VIII_of_Denmark), who was king of what is vaguely the Southern Isles at the time when Frozen is vaguely set, because I am unimaginative.

"I guess you could make the decorations yourself, and we should definitely have the ice rink again. And, oh! We could invite your entire family!" Anna exclaims, braids whipping the air as she turns to Kristoff, catching at his arm.

"Pardon?" Elsa says.

"The trolls," Anna says, rolling her eyes, as Kristoff and Elsa both baulk. Her knife scrapes loud across her almost empty plate as she recoils.

"I'm not sure that's..." Elsa tries, looking towards Kristoff as she trails off helplessly. Meals with the three of them are still rare and tentative, but there's a kind of rhythm between them, separate from Anna's energy, that works well enough. He's more perceptive than she first assumed, quick to catch on to the things she skirts around. 

"They don't really leave the cairn very much," he says, looking at Anna.

" _Exactly_ ," Elsa breathes. "I really couldn't ask -- trolls I hardly know to leave their home just for my coronation day."

"How do you expect to get to know them if you never _visit_ them?" Anna says, waving her fork at Elsa. 

"I've been busy," Elsa says, darting her eyes away to watch the morning sun filter through the window. Dust dances lazily in the light, that spills over the floor and cuts across the furthest chairs.

"She doesn't have to -" Kristoff tries, but Anna shushes him with a hand over his, tangling their fingers together on the table. His mouth snaps shut. Anna fixes Elsa with a look.

"You're important to me and the trolls are important to our history and I think they should be there for your anniversary," Anna says, like that's final. "Either they come here or we're having the celebrations in the mountains."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Elsa says, and as Anna opens her mouth to argue the door swings open, and Kai enters.

"I have the morning's letters, Your Majesty," Kai says, standing by her elbow as he holds them out on a small silver plate. Anna catches her eye with a twist of her mouth, eyes tight and frowning in a way that isn't intimidating at all, and turns her full body towards Kristoff like a punishment. Elsa picks up the thin pile and thumbs through it, unfazed.

Kai glances at Anna's back, and then slides out another letter that was tucked between his thumb and the underside of the plate. "There is one more," he says, and his voice tips low. "From the Southern Isles."

Anna lifts her chin, turning her head a fraction towards them, and Elsa has to resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands and stuff it under the pile. "Thank you," she says, as he bows shortly and leaves. 

Anna narrows her eyes at his retreating form, and then switches to Elsa. "I'm not going to break if I hear the name of his stupid country, you know."

"I know," Elsa says, and presses her lips together to stop herself from smiling. "He just worries about you," she says, because she cannot fault the caution; not when she would keep every dangerous thought and thing as far away from Anna as possible forever, if she could.

"That's your job," Anna says. "And you're still not allowed to hide things from me." 

"Noted," Elsa says, an irrepressible twitch in the corner of her mouth. Nothing of importance, she thinks, and doesn't want to consider how her chest tightens like a lie. She waits until Anna has nodded and turned back to Kristoff before she looks down at the letter clutched in her hands.

A message from the Southern Isles could mean anything. Elsa steels herself, glances at Anna once more before she sets her face calm and blank and unshakeable, and breaks open the wax seal. Her focus flicks straight to the bottom of the page, the name _King Christian_ signed with a familiar flourish, before she forces herself to read from the beginning.

> My dear cousin, 
> 
> I have found a reply from you to a letter I do not remember sending, but it was so long ago I fear it is only age causing the lapse in my memory. If that is the case, first I must apologise for being so lax in our correspondence, and beg for your forgiveness in the years taken to continue it. 
> 
> But! There my memory goes again, because that was not my reason for picking up the pen. Although the distance between our fair countries is not great the journey is still long, and word has only just reached me of my youngest brother's misguided attempt to flee his righteous imprisonment. It is fortunate that the news of his capture arrived at the same moment. 
> 
> I have heard you are a wise and just ruler, and as such I am sure that whatever punishment he received was just and wise. Although, I have great hopes that the tales of your fearsome powers have not been exaggerated. He certainly deserves a good dose of fear. If I'm ever lost in a good mood I need only think of the endless trouble that he could have avoided throughout his life if only he were a sensible coward.
> 
> Alas, I have wandered again. I will hurry to the point before it escapes me entirely. It is a simple matter, one that would hardly need more than a mere sentence to conclude. I would ask of you a great kindness: to inform me of my brother's continued health. Lost fingers, weight and looks are of no consequence, for as long as he is still breathing and can bear his sharp tongue I shall know he is still my brother. 
> 
> You had such lovely handwriting in the last letter you sent. I hope to see it again soon.
> 
> Your affectionate cousin,  
>  HM King Christian of the Southern Isles

"Elsa?" Anna's voice drifts into her consciousness, and Elsa blinks twice before she looks up, finding both of them watching her. Her face aches from the deep frown etching into her muscles, and she smooths her fingertips over her eyebrows to clear the knot.

"Is it that bad?" Anna says, and Elsa twists her mouth to the side, skimming the words again before shaking her head.

"No. It's... fine," she says. "Here," she says, and hands it across to Anna.

"Really?" Anna says, even as she takes it, and at Elsa's nod she pulls it tight between both hands and scans through it.

"Aww," she says, after a quick minute. Elsa raises an eyebrow, and Anna sits back in her chair, taking the letter with her. "He seems nice!"

"Right," Elsa says, rubbing a knuckle just above her nose.

"You didn't think so?" Anna says, frowning down at the words again, like they might have changed while she wasn't looking.

"He's certainly friendly."

Kristoff's gaze darts between them, only glancing at the paper once before looking away, tentative in his interest because they both have trouble deciding where he stands. Although Elsa trusts him with Anna she's not sure how far that extends; whether every liberty she allows Anna should now be his, too. 

Anna hands the letter back to Elsa before the silence stretches so unstable that she has to make a decision. He'll hear it all later, regardless. The sunlight reaches across the table, not quite touching any of them, and all Elsa can think is that she needs a second opinion, something other than the roll of her gut calling out a warning.

Elsa folds the letter without reading it again, and stands up just as Anna's hand slams over Kristoff's arm to stop him from hesitating awkwardly over doing the same. She is endlessly insistent that family time is not etiquette training time.

"I should reply to this as soon as possible," Elsa says, sounding weak even to herself, and gathers up the rest of the letters and sweeps out of the room before she can linger on the entirely unconvinced look on Anna's face. It's not a lie if it's not important. More truth than not.

There is, of course, only one expert on the Southern Isles currently in her castle, and when she gets to her chamber he is lounging on her bed and looking utterly surprised to see her.

This morning was supposed to be something like a test, although she never said it out loud - a check of his obedience as the cell door stands open and solid and only the lock of her chamber door holds him in, wrists and ankles free to move as he pleases. 

"Elsa," Hans says, and his smile slips small and genuine and pleased. "I didn't expect you back so soon." He doesn't look at her hands; his eyes never dip below her mouth. "Is everything alright?"

"A letter from your brother arrived," Elsa says, and holds it out for him to take. It's a risk - she doesn't let him near her work, usually, but Hans is more well-versed in dealing with his brothers than she is and she needs something to settle the unease that's needling at her. Of course she doesn't trust him, but that's where her thoughts catch and stop.

She doesn't consider that this is the first time he's heard anything from his family since they banished him from the Southern Isles. And, if she did, fleetingly, he's always acted like the opinion of his brothers is meaningless to him. In every story about his childhood that she pretended not to listen to they were the minor characters, the backdrop to his loneliness - and the point was always that she was the audience. The only stories she believed were the ones where Hans didn't feature at all.

Elsa presses the door shut behind her without looking, the key still tucked between her thumb and palm, and takes a couple of steps forward as Hans swings his legs off the bed. His face is curiously blank, the smile gone by the time he's standing in front of her, and he pulls the paper from her loose grip like something rotten and crumbling. His expression doesn't move as he skims down the words, hard and blank and almost unreadable, but she can still see the way his shoulders draw back and tense. 

The unease in the base of her spine spreads, crawling up into her ribs, and Elsa turns away to lock the door and then drop the rest of the letters onto the table. Her footsteps are the only sound in her chamber. 

"What does he want?" Elsa asks as she turns back to him, and suddenly she can read him perfectly; Hans snarls in the moment before he turns away, the paper crackling in his grip, and Elsa realises her mistake.

"To check I'm still breathing, apparently," he says, his voice snapping so bitter than Elsa's hand twitches with the want to reach out. Oh, she thinks. How stupid of me, even as she marvels that she's never seen him like this before, so closed-off and every breath quick and shallow, swelling with anger.

Hans stares at the letter one hand clutching tight at the thick of the arm, a glimpse of his teeth through his snarl.

"I'm sorry -" Elsa starts, as Hans looks up at her and blinks. His face falls blank but it's not the careful constructed act she's used to - just slack, and barely maintaining even that.

"Have you sent him many letters?" Hans asks, oddly flat and toneless and careful, and Elsa frowns before she makes herself consider it.

"None that I remember," she says, slow and truthful. She's had to respond to so many messages over the years, since -- since that became her responsibility, just a blur of polite rote phrases and hoping the seal will set in the wax before the ice cracks it, and there's only one truth she can give. "I never wrote to anyone who didn't write to me first," Elsa says, and watches his face darken like a storm rolling in. 

"That letter was in a locked trunk," he says, in one rushed exhale, eyes fixed on the floor and his jaw set so hard she can see the bite of his teeth. "He knows he's never written to you, and he thinks to ask after my _health_?" Hans laughs, dark and disbelieving, and his face is twisted as he stalks past without acknowledging her at all. She frowns, and can't pin down why she's so bothered by that.

Elsa wonders, for a surreal moment, if she should leave. 

His silhouette is all tension as he paces to the far end of the table, stiff and jerky as a puppet, like he's forgotten how to work his own joints. She watches the tilt of his head as he looks at the letter one more time before letting it drop on to the table with a vicious, deliberate kind of carelessness.

Perhaps, the mistake was in giving him the letter to read. The thought of some code in the words comes and goes in the same heartbeat - Anna is the only one who would even consider the notion of Elsa letting him read it. No, this is all him, unexpected and secret; there's something else she's missing, beyond her wordless dislike of the cadence of the king's letter, beyond every tale about his brothers that Hans has twisted to match his purpose and then laughed off.

Hans crosses to the window, arms folded tight for as long as it takes to step in to the light before they drop to his sides, fists bare and clenched. He looks like it would hurt to touch him, so still and burning in the sunlight. There's no hesitation in her quiet footsteps as she follows, stands half a step behind him and catches his wrist.

For a second he flinches, stunned, at the touch or the fact that she's still there, but the fight doesn't seep out of him like the warmth in his skin sinking into hers. Hans just stands there, pinned, as he quakes with an anger that starts in his chest and spreads out like shockwaves. Tendons shift under her grip.

"Talk to me," Elsa says, not quite a command (not _yet_ , not unless she needs to turn this into something far simpler), and finally he meets her eye. It's a split-second before he looks away again, scanning the arch of the window frame as he runs the tip of tongue up against the point of his teeth, but the raw edge was enough to jolt her chest with a sudden, furious kind of shared purpose.

"I forged a letter of introduction a few years ago," Hans says, staring blankly out the window. "To you, from the newly crowned King Christian," he says, and there's that snarl again, smaller, curling his lip. 

"I'm very good at seguing myself into foreign courts," he says, so flatly that it hardly sounds like a boast at all, and Elsa bites her lip. "As unappreciated as I was in my own kingdom, there was always a weight behind being able to introduce myself as a prince that allowed me almost anywhere - except here, of course," Hans says, and turns his head towards her just enough that she can see his face, blank and unreadable, before he turns back to the view. His pulse beats against the ball of her hand.

"The kingdom of Arendelle was always so secretive and untouchable, I figured a letter from a mere prince wouldn't be enough to get me audience with the crown princess," he says, wetting his lips before continuing. Elsa's gaze slips, looks him over as she pieces together the words before he says them. "So, I wrote one in my brother's hand suggesting he send me as a kind of envoy, with something very convincing about increasing trade and strengthening bonds between our countries. 

"You sent back a very short, very polite letter saying no." He glances at her again, almost smiling, but it's a dark and sickly thing in the slant of his mouth. "At least I now know why. Luckily, post from Arendelle Castle was so rare that it was easy to make sure it came to me rather than my brother. I kept it locked away in a trunk at the bottom of my wardrobe, along with the rest of the documents I should have burned."

"The rest?" Elsa asks, frowning. Arendelle glitters through the window, distant and beautiful.

She must have tightened her grip as his fists clenched again, because Hans turns to look at her properly. "You are far from the only person I shouldn't have been writing to," he says, rolling his shoulder as though to dislodge her as the pleasure of his own cleverness slips away. "And now my brothers are going through my things as though I'm already dead."

There's a detachment in his voice, the acerbic edge that holds the line between hysteria and defeat, and - yes, okay, perhaps she didn't think this one through, but he's always played his relationship with his brothers like a mild irritation rather than an open wound. She thinks of Anna, of thirteen years, and has the desperate urge to fix this. 

The want to touch him is still there but she lets her hand drop, and puts enough space between them that he sways as though to fill it. She knows this feeling - fractured and tense with the effort to hold it together, and the cracks weighted over a sharp, thin point. If she just left him to calm down he would be all the more breakable, eventually. Not like this, she thinks. 

She doesn't want him fragile. She wants to know what he's hiding. 

"He cared enough to write," Elsa says, with precision, and watches him shatter.

He's still holding himself stiffly but there's a ripple of disgust, starting around his mouth and shuddering out until he's clenching his fists and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. "He can't even bring himself to write my name," Hans says, and when she doesn't move to close to gap between them he goes, brushing past her to snatch up the letter.

Elsa hovers in the no man's land between them, her dress still caught sparkling in the light as she watches him, waiting for the point as he reads it again.

"How did it make you feel?" Hans asks, rough as stone. At least the flatness has gone, replaced by something roiling.

"Patronised, mostly," she says, folding her arms loosely across her chest, and Hans scoffs a laugh.

"Yeah. He's good at that," Hans says. "He always acknowledged me long enough that I knew exactly when I was being dismissed. He's closer to my father's age than mine, you know," he says, still facing away from her, and Elsa finally puts her finger on what's bothering her about this - he's not performing for anyone. It's genuine, and private, and not an act at all.

It makes crossing the room and brushing a hand against his back a lot easier, when it doesn't feel like she's playing into some design. He starts more noticeably this time - the initial burst of anger has thinned out until it's in every inch of his skin, weaving him together, and his thoughts are so clearly fathoms away that Elsa reaches up and turns his face towards her. The letter drops to the table.

"You could write back, if you want," she says, because it's all she has to offer him. Hans just stares blankly at her for a second, like he's trying to place her, before he blinks and looks over her shoulder to consider it. She lets her hand drop to his shoulder, pinning him in place.

"No. God, no. That would give him far too much information," Hans says, meeting her eyes again with a curious sort of frown. It looks, for a moment, like it's trying to mirror itself into a smile. 

Her hand slips down to press over his heart, not quite deliberate but she leaves it there, warmth beating against her palm through his thin shirt. She pushes. "What should I write, then? Other than confirmation of your continued breathing."

There's a quirk of his lips, not quite amused but close, before his face drops closed and unmoving and he blinks up at the ceiling like he's having to drag the words up from somewhere distant and deep, click into the right frame of mind. "Tell him I'm suffering horribly. I'm sure that's what he expects to hear," he says, and Elsa frowns.

"Do you think that's what he wants to hear?"

"Yes. Didn't you read it? You could have dismembered me and he would be fine with it." She runs the letter through her head, skimming the parts that caught in the few times she's read it, and skews her mouth into a frown. 

"I wouldn't - "

"I know," Hans says, and heat sinks into her spine as his hand finds her waist, pulling her a fraction closer. "Anyone who's met you would know that," he says, and he's finally focused on her and looking like he has only just realised she's so close. There's something like a smile tugging at his mouth, sunlight burning its way through the dregs of a storm.

"There's no tradition of sending prisoners back to their victims, you know," he says, quite casually, and Elsa leans back to study him as she raises an eyebrow, balancing against his hand. "I've always assumed they wanted me gone as quietly as possible without the embarrassment of having a member of the royal family dragged through the courts."

Ah, she thinks. There it is. "You assume?"

"They didn't exactly include me in the decision," he says, and his hand slides up her back like a suggestion. His expression is clearer, readable - intently fixed on her.

"So they just - sent you back to me?" Elsa clarifies, still leaning away, and Hans shrugs with one shoulder, a shift under her fingertips. 

_Righteous imprisonment_ , she thinks, and frowns. The unease that settled in her stomach as she read the king's letter swells, rolls, and dampens down again, but at least she's certain that she's been insulted, even if she's not quite sure how.

"Good," her mouth says, as her mind wanders elsewhere, and when she snaps back to find Hans watching her she doesn't feel the need to clarify it. "At least you got your audience with the crown princess," Elsa says, with a lightness that falls forced in the quiet. That seems to keep happening, recently - the urge to make him smile.

There's a shift in his face, too small and quick to read - not hiding or displaying anything as Hans looks at her regardless of whether she's looking back or not, and eventually it settles on that knotted little smile of disbelief. 

"I wanted the future queen of Arendelle. I could never imagine... you," he says, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, fingertips tucking under her jaw. His gaze flicks from her eyes to her mouth, and, if she were letting herself do that, now would be the perfect time to kiss him.

Elsa ducks her head and slips out of his grip, every point where his skin touched hers tingling, and rests her temple against his shoulder. There's a power in a kiss that she is wholly unfamiliar with, an importance she's unprepared for - and she has an entire lifetime of reasons to believe in the destructive power of magic. She knows what happens when you give in to it before you learn control.

She won't. She _can't_.

Hans wraps his arms around her regardless, used to the way she ducks past every intent look he fixes on her mouth. One hand curls over the back of her neck as the other tightens around her ribs, and she lets herself have this.

"I'm sorry," she says, and feels the way his fingers tighten fractionally against her. "I forgot how dramatic you can be," she says, brushing her mouth warm over his shoulder, and is quietly, intensely pleased when Hans huffs a slight laugh.

"I try to keep the inconvenience of my brothers to a minimum," he says, and despite the breeze of his voice for a split-second he's clutching her so hard it hurts. He dips his head to tuck his face into her neck, and when he presses his mouth to her skin its oddly heatless, closed-lipped and unmoving.

After a moment Elsa starts to pulls away, because she can't figure out what he's thinking, and then stops as his arms tighten. "Don't," he says, quiet. "Please."

She stays. She memorises every jut of his bones, counts heartbeats until he pulls away, and the glimpse of his face is strangely shuttered before he blinks, and concern knots in his brows. His entire expression slips easily, personally worried. "Don't you have a council meeting this morning?"

Her eyes blink wide. The reminder of the world outside her chamber blooms slow then bursts, and her schedule knocks impatiently on her bone-deep need to _not fail_.

"Oh," Elsa says. "Yes," and it's another beat before she untangles herself and steps away, before Hans catches the curl of her fingers and holds on. 

"I'll be back soon," she promises, and Hans snags his teeth over his lip.

"Right. Of course," he says, and lets go.

Elsa glances at the letter on the table as she smooths down her dress, unthinking with the need to do something with her hands, and turns away. He's silent as she gets the door open and steps through it, and in the last glimpse of him before the door clicks shut Hans is still standing by the table, four fingertips pressed against the wood. 

 

The sky has long since soaked blue in dusk, and when Elsa returns from dinner she finds Hans sitting at the table half dressed and reading by oil lamp. He looks up as soon as the door unlocks and clicks open. 

"Hi," Elsa says, as he quirks his mouth in response - back to his usual level of irritating confidence - and then in her overwhelming need to seem indifferent to him she gathers up her things and sits up against the headboard, balancing paper over her knees as she tries to find the right words to respond to King Christian. 

She is aware that Hans is watching her. 

Elsa ignores him, and dots the nib of her pen in black snowflurries that descend over the neat, crossed-out attempts at starting, and bites down on the yawn that threatens her throat. She's not going to lie, but as Hans's current state is - oh - shirtless and crawling across the bed towards her, she's not even slightly sure how much truth she should give. 

He nudges a kiss against her shoulder in lieu of hello when he gets to her side, pressing warm even through her nightgown, and sinks into the pillows piled up behind her as a frown flits across Elsa's face. Hans rests his chin on a hand and crooks his legs up, curled towards her so completely it's somewhat of a surprise to find he's not touching her at all.

"May I help? I know how to insult him so subtly he won't even notice for a week," Hans says, and smiles thin and clever when she glances at him.

"I don't think that would help," Elsa says. Her whole day has been wording this out in her head while looking like a dutiful queen - and, failing that, feigning a concerning amount of forgetfulness as she kept finding reasons to dash back to her chamber, first to pick up the letter again and then, later, because she couldn't stop wondering about Hans. 

She feels absurdly responsible for this. She has to get it _right_.

"Hmm," Hans says, and then snatches the paper off her lap. When she makes a grab for it he takes the book she was using as a makeshift table as well, and then holds out his hand for the pen. "I have no hesitation in climbing all over you to get it," he says, inclining his head.

"How refreshingly honest," Elsa sighs, and hands it over. He balances the book on his outstretched legs and writes, _He's fine, thank you for asking_ , in his angular script, and then leans across her to drop everything onto the bedside table. 

"There," he says, his mouth inches away from hers. "Is that polite enough?"

"As a first draft, it will do," she says, and his smile slips quick and proud and all the warning she gets before he's kissing her jaw, his mouth a wet tease as he trails down her throat. And - she lets him, because she's been high strung and distracted all day and this almost exactly what she needs. Almost.

"Did I say you could?" Elsa says, grabbing the back of his hair to tug him away.

"My apologies," Hans says, too intense and dark-eyed to sound sincere, and, yeah, there's the twist of his mouth like a promise of something wicked. "May I please her majesty?"

Elsa considers him, raking her gaze from the top of his head down to the plane of his stomach. "Only with your mouth," she decides, and thinks of storms as he sinks down to kiss her collarbone.

He works his way down her body slowly, with a kind of reverence she doesn't usually allow - lingers over the neckline of her gown, a last hint of warmth direct into her skin before he's pressing kisses over the fabric stretched between her breasts, pushing it down to meet her sternum. His fingers catch on the hem and slide her nightgown up. His hands don't touch her, the cotton slipping just enough to tickle above her navel, and he's unhurried in crossing the softly dyed folds of fabric with nudging kisses until he finds skin again.

Elsa lets her arms fall wide, splaying across the pillows as she melts away the urge to rein him by the hair, force him to go faster, because right now he's obeying her in the loveliest way. Everything's sensitive and heightened and tingling as he travels featherlight touches down her stomach, her legs falling wide, and he's kissing a path between her hips as she can't stop them rolling with the tiniest hitch up to meet him. 

Hans looks up just as his mouth dips below her mound, his gaze green and bright and dazzling, and Elsa gasps happily as his lips find her core. "Good," she says, half lost in a sigh, and lets him worship her. 

After she climaxes, a breathless stutter that tingles all the way to her shoulders, Elsa runs a hand through his hair and tells him to stay. It's a deliberate choice, this time - she resisted the want of it for over a week, the forgotten test of today meant to be the excuse for it, but now there's one arm wrapped around her and his chest warm against her back, her fingers catching over his, and she listens to his breathing stretch slow and deep as he falls easily asleep. 

It's so easy that she could almost pretend this wasn't a hard decision at all, but she's slowly starting to accept that denying herself something just because Hans wants it too is a terrible way to make decisions.


	17. I'll just stay a victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Hooked on a Feeling - Blue Swede](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m86nMHfvl7s) (of course).
> 
> If you like hugs, imagine I'm hugging you _really hard_.  <333
> 
> warnings for this chapter: consensual choking, and implied breathplay (because choking).

"Tell me about your day," Hans says, lips brushing her throat. The bedcovers pool over their legs, the world outside her window seeping bruise-blue behind the silhouette of the mountains, and his hand traces circles up her thigh, just nudging under the hem of her nightgown.

Elsa skims her fingertips down his arm, feeling hopelessly affectionate and too tired to care in the slightest, and sighs. "Meetings, mostly. Trade is picking up as the northern routes open. The docks need renovating," she says, and then trails off with a frown because he's never asked that before without sounding like he's mocking her, somehow. She hasn't had to shoot back something sarcastic since before Corona. 

"How was yours?" Elsa asks, still frowning, and not entirely serious. Her hand has stilled. 

"Oh, it's been very productive," he says, in that low mocking-serious tone he uses, and Elsa is absently concerned to notice she recognises it. "I finished a book on maritime warfare that, unfortunately, hadn't become in any way interesting since I last read it, and I reorganised your bookshelves. It's now subject, then author."

Elsa lifts her head to look at her shelves near the door. The books have definitely moved, but if there's an order to it she can't tell from this distance. 

"Oh," she says. "Thank you?"

"I've also come up with a way of dealing with that advisor you don't like," Hans says, light and easy, his breath rushing warm over her skin as she sinks back down into the pillows. 

Elsa opens her mouth, frowns, and closes it again. "I've never said anything of the sort," she says. Yes, there is one Guild Master in her council meetings, a relic from her father's council who makes her want to shoot frost across the grand table just to make him _stop talking over her_ , but she was taught better than that, and she has more control than that, and most importantly she's never let herself complain about him. Especially not to Hans.

"No," Hans agrees, and his fingertips drift a little higher. "All I need is five minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper, and a promise you won't read it."

"He does not need to be _dealt_ with," Elsa says, and prides herself on the levelness of her voice. Doesn't consider his proposal even for a second. 

"Why shouldn't I read it?" Elsa asks, before she can stop herself.

"Because you would get angry," Hans says, and when Elsa purses her lips and tilts her head so she can look at him, Hans just meets her gaze through his eyelashes, brows drawn up and sympathetic. "I fear you don't have the stomach for this kind of politics."

Elsa flicks her eyes to the ceiling as she turns away, her hand bouncing against the mattress as she pulls it away from his arm. "Ordering an assassination isn't politics - "

"Blackmail," Hans cuts across, rolling close and bracketing his arms either side of her, as though there was a risk of her leaving her own bed in the drawing close of the evening. He's looming over her, and Elsa idly considers ordering him back to the cell - but that might just bring up awkward questions about how often she lets him stay, if she reminds him that's always an option. She makes a point of not thinking about it.

"I make it my business to know things," Hans insists, but then his gaze drifts away, his eyes narrowing. She can see the freckles sprayed across his cheeks, the thick brush of his eyelashes as he stares unseeing at the headboard. "Of course, it might be old news by now. Perhaps assassination is the way to go -"

Elsa narrows her eyes, and slightly hates herself for it as she takes the bait anyway. "What do you know?"

Hans looks down at her, and smirks. "I couldn't possibly say," he says, shifting so he's kneeling either side of her thighs as he holds himself over her, and she had almost forgotten how infuriating he could be. At least, she now knows how to deal with that.

"Tell me," Elsa commands, her hand wrapping fast around his neck as she bares her teeth, and Hans suddenly goes dark-eyed and intense, pushing into her grip as he angles his jaw up. She can feel his throat jump as he swallows.

"That's cheating," Hans says, a little faintly. 

Elsa lets the corner of her mouth slip dark. "Politics," she teases, and watches his mouth as he snags his teeth over his lower lip. Her tiredness has disappeared completely.

"May I propose a trade?" Hans asks, quiet, a flicker of something in the arch of his brows before he wets his lips, quick and precise. Elsa pushes up on her elbow so she can nudge her mouth next to his ear.

"Tell me," she murmurs, catching her lips over the corner of his jaw, and she can feel the way he sighs shifting against her palm. "Or I will let go," she says, and loosens her grip by a fraction.

Hans makes a noise, distraught and unwilling, and Elsa keeps her hand still. "Okay," he says, and she smooths her thumb up half an inch, tucking under his jaw. His eyes fall shut. "Guild Master Ragnar, correct?" he asks, and Elsa pulls away enough to look at him properly - not all the way back down to the pillows, scant inches between them, and when Hans opens his eyes again it's just halfway. They fix on her mouth for a moment before finding her gaze.

Elsa flexes her grip, her fingertips loose then tighter, and his skin beats hot again her palm. She almost hopes her eyes are too shadowed, the oil lamp just out of her sight, to show anything like surprise. "Yes."

"Right," Hans breathes, flicking the tip of his tongue against his lips. "He has a second family, up in the northern territories. Neither of them know about each other."

"Oh," Elsa says, and ignores the way Hans whines when her grip loosens entirely, just the barest threat of her hand circling his neck. That simple fact raises an awful lot of questions. Most of them are about Hans. 

"And what did you plan on doing with that?" Elsa asks; holds back the rest, the important ones, for later. She flits her thumb from one side of his throat to the other, her hand now simply curved around the side of his throat, as though she could pull him down to her with just a curl of her arm.

"Nothing, unless it was needed," Hans says, before he catches her wrist and dips his head to press a kiss over the knuckle of her index finger, a scrape of teeth over her skin. "I believe we had a deal, Your Majesty?"

His smile is sharp again, now that she isn't pressing down on every breath like he wants her to. There's an epiphany in there somewhere, probably, but it will have to wait. 

"Of course," Elsa says, no interest in breaking it, but that doesn't mean she has to make it easy for him. She likes the way he blushes around the words when he begs. "What do you want, Prince Hans?"

He swallows, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "Your hand around my neck," he says, and draws it closer to his throat before he lets go of her wrist. She obliges, technically - curls her hand around his neck just enough to feel the press of his skin, contouring her fingers around the slope of his tendons. His pulse beats against the pad of her thumb.

"Tighter," he begs, more strangled than she's causing, and Elsa twists her mouth out of a grin just before she clenches her fingers. Hans chokes out a gasp, his eyes fluttering shut as she squeezes, and she lets herself just watch him, for a moment.

His arms are locked solid either side of her, holding himself up, and Elsa digs her fingers into his throat as she reaches up to thread her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. She twists her fingers and pulls tight enough to jerk his head away, marvelling at the way his breath stutters, the way his hips buck into the empty air between them as his eyes open just enough to look at her.

Elsa holds his gaze and draws up one knee, her thigh slipping between the angle of Hans's legs and he jerks his hips against it, his cock pressing hard through his breeches against her skin.

"Oh, god," he moans, rutting helplessly against her as the words vibrate through his flesh, and Elsa thinks she's made her point. She doesn't have to be on top to control him.

"Touch yourself," she murmurs, and Hans groans, and obeys. He only wears his breeches in bed with her, that odd sense of modesty again, but he gets them open quick with one hand and rumbles silently against her palm as he wraps a hand around his cock. 

He's still watching her through sleep-heavy eyes, thin and black, and he manages two slow drags along his length before his mouth twitches through a grimace and suddenly he jerks lower, shoulder slipping back as he tries to keep his elbow locked straight. A moment later and all that corded muscle means nothing as his weight drops onto his forearm, too far gone already to hold himself up, and suddenly his mouth is nudging her collarbone and her grip around his throat tightens.

She can feel him panting choked and shallow against her skin, his fingertips clutching at the curve of her shoulder, and her hand is still threaded through his hair - and Elsa pulls, levers him up enough so they can both breathe. Even through his slight snarl at the tug Hans doesn't stop jerking his hand along his cock, cheeks burning red and eyes glassy. 

There's that warmth coiling high in her stomach, tightening just at the sight of him like this, and he's so close that his knuckles drag over her stomach at the top every stroke. Their legs are tangled together. She can hear every hitch of his breath, the exquisite detail of the tiniest sounds that catch in his throat, feels whimpers thrum against her hand before they spill out of his mouth. 

She can't think of anything to say. Her lips are parted as her breath comes quick and there are no commands lining up on her tongue - Elsa just watches him, flexes her grip around his neck as he gasps for air and works his hand faster. Hans chokes out a moan and then he's coming, spilling across her bare stomach as he fists his cock through it.

Elsa lets go of his throat, sliding her hand down to splay over his chest, and Hans pitches forward to bury his face in her neck. " _Christ_ ," he mumbles, soaking warm into her skin.

Her hand is still buried in his hair, her arm draped over his shoulder. She could just let him catch his breath right here and fall asleep like this - but she's halfway there just from watching him, and the head of his cock is rubbing sticky against her stomach.

She tugs at his hair lightly, just enough to make him look up with his blown-wide pupils. He looks blissfully exhausted, blinking at her twice as his bottom lip shines in the low light.

"Clean me up," Elsa says, soft, and it's all the prompting he needs to find the strength in his arms again, pushing up to bracket himself over her. Hans just looks at her for a second, so openly adoring that Elsa has to resist the urge to yank his hair again to make him stop, and then his smile crooks wicked and he dips his head to press a kiss to her throat. He crawls backwards.

Elsa keeps her hand threaded through his hair again but doesn't pull - just bites her lip and holds on as he swipes his tongue across her stomach in long, wide arcs and lingering kisses, wetness tingling over her skin. Hans sucks a slow trail down to her core and hums appreciatively when he finds how wet she is - doesn't wait for permission before he wraps his mouth around the nub of her skin, flicking his tongue relentlessly over it until everything tightens incandescently and Elsa comes, gasping.

"Okay," she breathes, her arms falling to the side as Hans licks the length of her core, his hands circling her hips, and then, " _Stop_ ," when he doesn't take the hint. Hans looks up and catches her eye, his eyes glittering.

"Are you sure?" he says, mouth small and teasing, and Elsa glares down at him. The long day has cantered to catch up with her, soaking into the ease left by his mouth. 

"I'm _tired_ ," Elsa says, and lets her head fall back into the pillows, her eyes drifting shut. She draws her legs together tight as Hans shifts, the warmth of him dissolving away as the mattress dips, and for a moment she wonders if he's going to just leave.

Ah, no. He curls up against her side, his warmth pressing solidly as his arm curves over her spit-clean stomach, and his lips brush her shoulder.

"Can I stay?" he asks, and a slow burn of fury starts in the twitch of her frown and shoots through her into nothing, just something irritating her in its wake. In the few weeks she's been allowing this he's never asked, and she realises that she had been relying on that - relying on him to be the one to take every inch she allows without question, on the uncertainty that she might take it away if he did.

She doesn't want to take it away. She doesn't want to admit it out loud, either.

"Please?" Hans says, quiet and lost in a way that is so pitch-perfect it must be a performance, but she takes it like a lifeline anyway.

"Fine," Elsa says, and rolls onto her side, turning her back to him as she finds herself facing the oil lamp. She reaches for it as Hans wraps an arm around her waist again, suddenly bold, and there's the press of his mouth over her neck as she plunges the room into darkness.

"Go to sleep," she says, and Hans huffs a laugh against her spine.

 

Hans is still there when she wakes up, which isn't a surprise, but the way she's clutching on to his wrist is. He's fast asleep on his back, his neck long and vulnerable as the covers drape above his ribs, and Elsa flexes her fingers carefully. Her bones stretch out as she peels her hand away and draws it to her chest. 

It's early enough that the light spills blue and soft and diffused, everything shadowless, and Elsa only lets herself watch him for a count of ten before she turns away and studies the window, the first hints of colour seeping into the clouds. She runs through the list of her duties for the day, breakfast and meetings and time in the throne room, far too many people who need her attention and her time and her advice, and doesn't let herself groan, not even in the privacy of her chamber. 

This is what she was born to do. She won't ever complain about it. 

There's a faint noise behind her, throaty and short, and Elsa waits a long moment before she glances over to find Hans stretching awake. There's a smile playing in the corner of his mouth, and when he opens his eyes and rolls his head towards her the bow of his lips spreads easy and wide, a flash of his tongue behind his teeth.

"Good morning," Hans says, rough with sleep in a way she's become cloyingly familiar with, and Elsa, for once, lets herself smile in response. It's just a quick quirk of her mouth, gone in a second, but Hans beams wide and rolls over so his feet find hers under the covers. 

"I dreamt about you," he says, his hand splayed out in the space between them like an offering, and Elsa follows the line of it up to his shoulder without moving. His skin looks sleep-warm, and soft, and she catches herself studying the contours of his throat.

Hans lifts his chin, and catches her eye with a smirk when she flicks her gaze up. "Did you leave a mark?" he teases, and Elsa purses her lips.

"No," Elsa says, because his skin looks perfectly smooth, and perhaps she wasn't as hard as she feared - as she has been in the past, even. 

"How disappointing," Hans says, and tilts his head into the pillows as he closes his eyes, like he's considering going back to sleep. His neck stretches long and - actually, there's a shadow where her thumb was, a dip of purple like an accidental flick of a paintbrush.

She can't quite decipher how she feels about that. The usual pride of seeing the trace of her touch on him is tangled up in something else, that sticks at the top of her chest. It's not as though she's reluctant to hurt him, or enjoying it any less. It can't be guilt when Hans was the one pleading for it, but, oh, there's a twinge - something distressingly like concern. A question of how easily he bruises.

It's strange, having seemingly infinite power over ice and snow and yet she's hardly sure of her body's own strength. How much pressure there is in the squeeze of her fingers. She's never had to consider it before - the entire point of this thing was that she could touch him however she wanted without fear, because it didn't matter if she hurt him.

But if she's starting to care --

 _No_ , she thinks, and mentally slams that door.

Hans opens his eyes reluctantly, his face half buried in the cushions, and smiles when he finds her still watching him.

"Are you staying for breakfast?" he asks, slightly muffled as he brings his hand up to tuck under the pillows, sprawling out onto his front. 

Elsa considers him, the freckles scattered across his back that shift with the hitch of his shoulders, and then thinks of her schedule. "No, I've got a lot of work to be getting on with," Elsa says.

"Lucky you," Hans says, and turns to bury his face in the pillow.

When he emerges again, a silent few seconds later, Elsa narrows her eyes. She doesn't prompt him. She waits, and is oddly proud of the way there's no fear rolling in her gut; just curiosity, and that feeling she doesn't want to consider. 

"Elsa," he starts, and then presses his lips together, gathering himself like he's been building up to this. "Elsa, I need something to do. Anything. Just something to occupy my time otherwise I will waste away the day thinking of nothing but you," he says, imploringly earnest, and then he blinks and looks away as though he's only just realised what he's said. 

"Of course, that's never been a _waste_ of my time," Hans says, and his smile slips crooked. His toes nudge her ankle. 

"An occupation?" Elsa asks, her brows furrowed. Hans nods as best he can while sunk into a pillow.

"But you're a prisoner," she says, and pointedly does not consider the irony of that as he lounges in her bed. It's not like she's _forgotten_ , it just - hasn't really mattered, for a while. 

"Ah," Hans says, and his gaze dips low for a second. "Yes, of course. That doesn't mean I can't be useful," he says, and Elsa absently marvels at how good he is at making himself dark-eyed and irresistible even as she flushes warm in response.

"Perhaps," Elsa says, as neutrally as she can, and his eyes widen slightly, waiting. "I will think about it," she concedes, rolling her eyes to the canopy and that intensity burns away in an instant, his smile blooming wide and lopsided and somehow reminding her of Anna.

There's a lick of sunlight creeping along her chamber wall as dawn rolls in, and she has places to be. Hans has closed his eyes again but she forces the space between them and doesn't turn her back until she's slipped out of bed, so he can't chase close when she's not watching.

"I would also like more books," Hans says, as Elsa is tugging off her nightgown. She glances behind her and finds him rolled onto his side, watching her in open appreciation. "If that's allowed," he adds, his gaze somewhere around her waist.

"I suppose," Elsa sighs, and pulls on her dress with a flutter of her hand, more a suggestion of shape than the command. Ice spills thin and layered down to her feet. She leaves Hans in bed as she gets ready for the day, and allows herself a small, private smile when he makes a low noise and buries his face in the pillows again.

 

His information about Guild Master Ragnar turns out to be correct, after Kai makes some exceptionally discreet enquiries. Elsa doesn't do anything with it, and she doesn't mention it to Hans, but it's - useful, to know. 

More trade routes are clearing and opening up as spring reaches out for summer, the world getting a little bigger, and during another dull council meeting a proposal is passed to her. A neighbour of the Southern Isles, a country one small sea to the east, wants to increase trade with Arendelle at the expense of her ships.

Elsa hums, and promises to consider it carefully. 

"I was wondering if you had any advice," Elsa says, and spreads a chart of the surrounding seas on her bed, as the table is too small. The paper crackles as she smooths it out. "Since you make it your business to know things, after all," she challenges, and finds Hans head bowed and mouth quirked laughing when she glances over to check he is listening. 

"I'm glad you're paying attention," Hans says, and rises from the table to join her beside the bed. He's standing so close she can feel the heat of him, stretching out in the space between their arms, and then Hans makes a considering noise and steps around her to slide onto the bed, pulling the map around with him so he can view it while propped up by the pillows.

"It's easier to see it all from here," he says, not looking at her, and Elsa huffs out a breath and then perches beside him, her legs folded underneath her. Hans draws up one knee and rests his elbow on it as he pulls the map towards them, and traces out a possible route with the pads of two fingers.

She's always loved puzzles, and she learnt to love talk of taxes and levies and overheads by deciding there must be a perfect solution as long as she worked hard enough to find it. Keeping her mind occupied with numbers kept her hands busy, and her heart calm, and there was a steadfast, reliable kind of joy in making everything add up perfectly, and routing out the problem when it didn't. She didn't know why some days were worse than others, but she understood how to balance the castle's funds. 

The exhaustion and headaches she found at the end of hours of work were nothing in comparison to having made a whole day without freezing anything. 

New trade agreements are tricky - offsetting risk and potential losses, supplies and salaries and delays, and deciding whether the outlay would be worth the eventual gain. She already has an idea, but it's possible she just wants to see if Hans' opinion aligns with hers. Elsa sees no point in saying that out loud.

Hans gives (surprisingly, still) good advice - tapping the chart to show a port on the far edge of the Southern Isles that must be avoided at all costs, and he knows the soundings through the maze of islands well enough to advise the best compromise between a large hold and a shallow draft for the quickest route. 

"I'm sure you can charm my brother into allowing your ships through his waters," he says, focused on the map. "Perhaps you could offer him some of my fingers as a gesture of good faith."

Elsa ignores that. She finally sent a reply to King Christian last week, and it was hardly any longer than Hans's attempt but at least it was unfailingly polite.

"What about here?" Elsa asks, pointing towards the narrow strait between the Isles and their closest neighbour to the north.

Hans shifts his weight and leans towards the map, somehow finding his shoulder brushing against hers. "Can be treacherous, but manageable if handled correctly," he says, and Elsa glances at him without turning her head. "Now, here," he says, and taps an island further south, "Are the spectacular chalk cliffs that stretch for miles. Did you see any of the islands, on your way down to Corona?" Hans asks, his voice light, and Elsa can't taste anything behind it.

"Only in the distance," she says; due to both the command of the navigator and the amount of time she spent below deck. Every landmass looked pretty much the same from several miles out.

"It's a shame I'll never be able to take you on a tour of it," Hans muses, and Elsa bites down on the thought that drifts up like an air bubble. She feels like she should object to that on principle - even if he could, their relationship is not one that invites leisurely travelling together.

"It's a shame you'll never see all the wonders of Arendelle," Elsa says, catching the corner of the map between two fingers and her thumb.

"Oh," Hans says, and his breath rushes warm over her skin, "I favour the view from right here." Elsa looks at him, disbelief peaked into her brows, and he's staring at her with such _heat_ that her entire body sings like it's a plucked string. Oh, she thinks. When did that happen.

Hans seems oblivious to her sudden disquiet - his mouth tucks under her jaw as his hand curls around the side of her neck, impossibly bold, and that tingling heat shoots all the way through every joint. Elsa leans into it for all of a second, still processing, and then makes a decision: she's too boneless to panic, and she _wants_ this. Her blood is pounding, and Hans's mouth is sucking wetly at her skin and it's everything she needs to spur her into moving. 

The chart hits the floor with a crunch as she flings it off the bed and kicks Hans onto his back, straddling him as she shoves her hands against his chest to pin him down. Hans clutches his fingers at curve of her hips and gazes up at her, that familiar expression of dark-eyed longing that still makes something low in her belly tighten, and at least this is easy. 

She yanks open his shirt and Hans tries to drag his hands under the hem of her dress before Elsa melts it into nothingness, leaves him grasping at air (unbalanced, just as she likes him) and reaches down to release his cock from his breeches, hardening hot and perfect next to her palm. It slips inside her easily, spreading her folds wide as she bites her lip and sinks down, and there's a thought - perhaps just proximity to him is enough to set her slick and interested, these days.

Hans pushes up to meet her, rolling his hips in a slow arc that makes her growl. She doesn't want _slow_. Elsa fists both hands in his hair and puts her mouth next to his ear, pressing chest to chest as she clenches around him and delights in the buck of his hips.

" _Harder_ ," she commands, spreading her knees wide so he has room to move and lets herself groan loud and appreciative as he thrusts fast inside her. Hans grips the small of her back, finds a quick pace that makes every inch of her shiver and Elsa gasps into the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut as she's filled so gorgeously.

There's a moan of something, wordless urging, and Hans sucks a warm kiss into the angle of her neck. She didn't realise how much she needed this; the tension dripping off her with every clash of their hips, rocking down against him, each thrust perfectly relentless as she melts and somewhere in the distance there's the thought that she isn't in control of this _at all._

Elsa clenches down to stop him. She slams her hips hard enough to keep his pinned to the bed and pushes up on her arms, drawing long, shuddery breaths as she looks down and just revels in the swell of him inside her. She hasn't climaxed yet but she's reached something like a plateau, the initial surge of need stretching out to a bone-deep warmth, and she's almost ready to set the pace when Hans surges up after her. 

He latches his mouth over her nipple, one arm tight around her waist as the other flies behind him to hold himself up, and Elsa gasps more for the newness than the sensation. It's intimate in a way she never lets him be - she hadn't realised how hard they were, and so _sensitive_. Her hand twists in his hair ready to force him away before there's the edge of his teeth, a hint of sharpness and Elsa shivers instead.

Something like encouragement threatens to roll out of her throat, so she bites down on it and circles her hips to distraction, that tightness coiling slow and languid in her stomach. Hans kisses up the soft curve of her breast to nuzzle at her throat and this is gentler than she's ever allowed herself, almost in his lap as they sweetly move together.

Her hands find his hair again, carding up through the softness and she's burning hot and breathless, wound so tight that she shudders with every roll. There's an urge to do something reckless, ridiculous in its intensity until she conquers it - lets her forehead drop against his instead of her mouth and closes her eyes and rides him as she comes, almost silent and shaking. 

"Elsa," Hans says, and she can feel his breath rushing over her lips. He's still rocking himself into her, shallow jerks that spark aftershocks, and when Elsa opens her eyes he just looks at her through half-closed lids. Hans reaches up to curl a hand around the side of her neck, his thumb brushing her ear, and he watches her until he groans tight and bucks up one last time.

They stay like that, sharing air for a timeless stretch and then without a word Elsa wets her lips and pulls away, almost falling to the side as she rolls onto her back and lets her head hit the pillow. Hans slumps down beside her, not touching her at all.

Her forehead itches. A ripple runs across her eyebrows before she reaches up with a heavy arm, pushing back the tendrils of hair that came loose and messy in the heat, and then lets it flop back down in the space between them. She stares unseeing up at the canopy, their breaths the only sounds in the low light of her chamber.

That - that was more intense that she was used to. She feels sticky, and sated, and quietly wonderful, but she can't stop thinking about the way Hans looked. Like there was nothing in the world but her. 

Hans's arm smooths loud over the bedcovers until his knuckles knock lightly against her wrist. His fingers curve across her bones, the tips tracing patterns over her pulse, and by the time she's thought the peculiar sweeps might be letters he finishes with a long curve that finishes near where it started. Elsa turns her head fractionally towards him, but his profile is marble, eyes closed and lips parted.

She almost thinks he's fallen asleep, until his hand slides up over her palm and his fingers find the spaces between hers, linking them close. The natural curl of her hand means she catches herself clutching back, intimacy without effort, and she doesn't want to pull away.

Elsa squeezes lightly, and watches the corner of his mouth curl up. 

"We didn't finish our discussion," he says, quiet. His eyes are still closed.

"It can wait until the morning," Elsa says, and tries not to wince when she thinks of the chart crumpled on the floor. She's not quite tired enough to sleep but she's comfortable, and there's nothing urgent she should be doing, and when she glances at Hans again he's breathing slow and deep.

She lets herself watch him for a count of ten, and then slips her hand away, and goes to tidy up.


	18. so good at shooting down any notion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Stray Italian Greyhound - Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI) (♥)
> 
> ilu all. I don't want to spoil anyone, but I have to say: at heart, this is porn fic, and porn fic exists to be satisfying. Don't worry <33

The fjord floods in the first hint of summer, the water rising quick enough to catch everyone unaware but it's just the empty dungeons of the castle that get the worst of it, swelling doors and saturating the stones. 

It takes days for the floodwater to recede, and Elsa, for the first time, is more frustrated that she can't use her powers than furiously trying not to. Freezing the water won't help at all, more likely to damage the foundations of the castle than shift the flood in any way - she can dissolve the ice she pulls from the air but the water she freezes just reverts back to water, when she releases it - and all she can do is organise the guards to bail it out as quickly as possible. 

They make their way further into the depths of the cells every day, bucket after bucket being hauled out and emptied back into the fjord. Elsa follows the receding tide mark at a distance, careful not to dip her toes in the black ripples that slop against the walls, and finds the cells sprawl down deeper into the earth than she had ever quite realised.

There are long-forgotten corridors and bars so old they're more rust than metal, crumbling when she brushes her fingertips over them, and rooms that she never knew existed - a large cavern empty of anything except grime, the floor still shiny with puddles, and a cell with nothing but a deep hole in the middle. It's filled with floodwater, and so dark she can't make out the bottom.

"Your Majesty," a guard calls, drawing her out of her consideration of what she could do with an oubliette. "There's something you should see."

It's just a door, Elsa finds when she follows him, strapped with metal and swollen shut. Two guardsmen have managed to pull the bolts free, technically unlocking it, but the flood has warped the wood so thick it's impossible to move.

At last. Something she can actually _do_.

"Stand back," Elsa says, and chooses to be quietly pleased with how quickly they obey, all three of them spreading out along the corridor. The nearest one, a clear eight feet away, holds up the lantern.

Elsa raises her arms, palms up and facing the door, and somewhere between her hands and the wood ice starts to form. It spreads across the grain, spilling into the cracks and the fissures, creeping thick and wide and glittering until every tiny gap is creaking under the weight of it. She keeps it confined to the door, not touching the blocky stone frame, and then Elsa concentrates and _pushes_. 

Her ice finds the water in the wood. Frost bursts along the seams, cracking spikes through the sodden inches - the door groans, and then buckles strangely, like a sheet pulled in from the center and twisted. A beat, and then it shatters. 

She flinches away from the implosion, but it's hardly a second before Elsa looks back and finds a dark, empty frame, the floor covered in wet splinters and the buckled lengths of metal. The guard furthest away starts clapping, before another jabs him in the stomach with the blunt end of his spear.

The guard with the lantern splashes past her, the soft light glinting over every puddle, and holds it up high as he steps into the room. Elsa follows, and her first impression is that it's just a storage room, cluttered and smaller than the handful of dungeon cells she has seen. There are a few trunks stacked on top of each other, locked with comically large padlocks. Several long coils of rusty chain loop and slink across the floor, heavy enough that Elsa winces when she tries to nudge one away with her toes. 

She thinks of Hans: the last time she had him in chains, down here in the dungeons, and the scant hours it's been since she untangled their legs and left him in bed. It must be only mid-morning up in the light. It's becoming quite ridiculous, how often her thoughts drift to him when she should be working. 

"Oh. The King had the worst of this destroyed some time ago," says a voice behind her, and she turns to see the guard with grey in his beard staring at something on the ground. She frowns, and follows his gaze down to halfway along the wall - there's more chains, and, some shackles, and for a moment she doesn't understand what he means before she spots the manacles with long spikes set inwards.

A foot further along there's a pair of glove-like shackles, thickly barred and studded with bolts, that look oddly small and newer than anything else.

"We must have missed this room," the guard says. Her hand twitches.

"Then we should finish it," Elsa says, still looking at the gloves, her mind blank and white-hot. "I want this cleared out, right now. Have it all melted down."

Either they're more perceptive than she realised or she's being worryingly obvious (she looks at her feet. There's no ice swirling out of control, thank goodness), because every guard clicks to attention and hurries off without question. She's left alone, the single lantern set down by the doorway, and Elsa takes one last look at the things built just for her and forces herself to look away with a sharp sigh.

Her eyes trace the high line on the walls where the water must been stuck for a long while, and it's barely half a minute before curiosity gets the better of her. Her imagination kicks in with every horror story she's ever heard about the things they used to do to prisoners, the things designed just to _hurt_ \- a glance around the room shows nothing instantly horrid, but the trunks look imposing, and mysterious. Pandora's box, she thinks, and firmly decides to leave them locked.

There are things leaning up against them, though. She takes three deliberate steps forward, the tap of her footsteps interrupted by the sodden thud of a thin puddle, and picks up a long metal bar that weighs surprisingly heavy in her hand. There are shackle-like hoops at either end, bolted shut, and when she holds it vertical she can't figure out what it is.

And then she shifts the heft of it, laying it across her palm, and, oh. Right. Those are shackles. 

Elsa puts it down before she drops it, propping it up against the trunks again. The dungeons are silent except for the faint slap of the floodwater sinking down the last set of steps - there's a leak somewhere, draining it faster than their buckets can account for, and it sends an odd ebb through the water. The bar settles its weight, listing towards the wall with a short scrape across the trunks and a final clink against the stonework. 

It's fine as long as she doesn't think of how any of these things were used. Or how many people they might have been used on. The endless nameless faces just nauseate her, but then she accidentally thinks of Hans, spread out and helpless, and even the cold, grimy darkness can't stop the thrill of heat that burns low in her stomach.

She bites her lip, holding onto that thought for a moment before she clutches at her elbows and turns on the ball of her foot, striding out of the room and back out into the narrow corridor. A single lantern burns halfway between her and the short flight of steps that widen as they climb, turning a corner and disappearing behind a rough-hewn column. The lantern behind her sends shadows flicking across the stones.

There's the thing she's been skirting round, furiously trying not to think about: it's been over a month since she last had Hans as viciously as she wants. She won't even admit it's a problem - how could it be, when he spends every night in her bed, his mouth trailing across every inch of skin that she will allow. It's lovely. Predictable. Not likely to hurt him in any way.

At least when she was hurting him she never forgot he is her prisoner. 

Elsa has the terrible notion than Hans might be as bored with it as she is, and doesn't know which thought is worse. 

His opinion doesn't matter, of course (everything they do is for _her_ ), and he's nothing but achingly, attentively sweet in bed but perhaps that's part of the problem: she still doesn't trust him. His advice on the trade proposal was good but he still spends his days reading instead of doing something useful, because when she's not stripping him bare she has no way of knowing that he's not building up a mask again, scheming towards something she can't see. 

It has been far too long since she last saw him strung-out and honest beneath her. 

Elsa folds her arms tighter, and sighs even as she feel ridiculous with it. The dungeons are still quiet. There are distant, muffled noises so faint she can't quite imagine what's making them, and Elsa turns back to the chamber, picking up the lantern and making her way to the back of the room. The shackled bar gleams dully in the light, the black iron pocked and rough, and the end smacks loud against the trunk when she picks it up and misjudges the weight, accidentally swinging it.

It almost reaches her hip when she rests the end on the floor and holds it up straight. The shackles are far too wide for wrists - ankles, then, she assumes, and lets that thought blossom. And, _yes_ , she wants that, as viscerally as she has always wanted it; Elsa clutches the bar to her chest for all of a moment before she remembers where she is, and what it was used for, and drops it.

A clatter rings through the chamber, and the echo doesn't seem to clear. Footsteps, Elsa realises - the distant thud getting louder as more guards rattle down the corridor towards her, and a burst of guilty heat washes over her before she rationalises that she doesn't actually have anything to be guilty _about._

The shackled bar is propped hurriedly back up against the trunks and Elsa steps out of the chamber just as the guards come down the steps. There's six of them now, rolling one cart and carrying several large sacks between them, another two lanterns in the cart lighting the way. Elsa lets them pass with an approving nod. 

Her own footsteps tap light as she quickly walks away, her skirts swishing. 

 

Of course, now that she's started thinking about it, Elsa can't _stop_. The rest of her day is overseeing the clearing of the dungeons and distributing the metal things to blacksmiths in town after the castle blacksmith nearly sobbed at the sight of it all. She left Kai to sort through the trunks, this time, and credits him enough to not have to say anything about not reporting back to her on it.

It's impossibly busy until suddenly everything is sorted and she's left standing in the corridor outside the Great Hall with nothing to do but _think_ , nothing to jolt her away from the longing that coats itself around every thought like sugar. There are hours to go until she can get back to the singular companionship of her chamber - she saw him, briefly, when she unlocked the door and carried the midday meal over to the table (Elsa hasn't figured out a better way of doing that, her being the only one allowed near him, yet. She isn't trying especially hard), and Hans barely said hello before she was out the door again, too busy to even consider getting rid of some of this tension. 

But now she's not, and there's nothing to distract her from the urge to tighten her fist around something like that could lessen the heat between her thighs. There are hours to go but she's got nothing to do and she's been so _good_ lately, so scheduled in her need for him that anyone would expect her to be in bed at that hour anyway - 

She wants, and hasn't that always been the problem. It's been a while since she wanted with such focus, the honeydew itch of an idea she can't shake until she has it. What a waste it would be to let that dissipate into casual passivity, Elsa thinks, a smile toying with her mouth, and finds herself already walking.

Elsa gets the message passed along to Kai that she will be working in her chamber for the rest of the day, and heads for the spiral staircase. There's that thrill of anticipation, every possibility stretching out like petals under sunlight, and biting her lip is the only way to stop herself smiling as she cards through the potentials. There are things she hasn't played with in _months_.

The heavy, shackled bar isn't an option any more, but that's hardly a problem when her mind has snagged on a challenge. She has the thought of belts and scarves and anything she could bind him with, and the power to summon ice on a whim, and all things she's tried in the past - by the time she's standing outside the door to her chamber and pulling the key from around her neck, there's only one thing she can't quite decide on. 

"If I were to tie you up," Elsa starts, quite casually, and Hans immediately looks up. He's draped into a chair, the spine of his book resting against the table edge, and Elsa leans against the door and presses it firmly shut behind her. "Would you prefer it to be by your wrists or your ankles?" she asks, and they both know he is perfectly capable of saying _neither_. She hopes he won't.

Hans blinks, and then looks down to the side, the slightest frown sketched between his brows. "By the wrists," he says, when he catches her eye again, and lets a smile twitch at the side of his mouth. The sprung-free strands of his hair catch the light, burning copper.

Elsa can be very patient, when she has to be, but right now she wants to wrap her fingers through the soft fringe that parts over his forehead and make him bare his throat with a yank of her hand.

"Go to your cell," Elsa says, and leaves just enough pause for Hans's smile to waver. "Bring me one of your neckties," she says, and watches him snap the book shut without marking his place and scrape back the chair, the smoke of his smile lingering as he turns. If he had said ankles she would be asking for two, but if his wrists are bound she wants to hold them down with nothing else but her own hand.

There's the thud of the chest lid hitting the wall, and Elsa crosses over the bed while Hans silently picks over his choices. She perches on the edge, tucking her feet close together, and her gaze drops straight to his hands when he comes back - a cravat a shade closer to red than purple is looped over his index finger and clutched by the rest.

"I didn't expect you back so soon," Hans says, stopping just in front of her, and Elsa holds out her hand. He drops the soft cotton onto her palm. "It's a lovely surprise."

There's a tease in his voice and a faint flush in his cheeks, and he squares his arms loosely behind his back as Elsa ducks her head to hide her quick smile. She lays the cravat across her lap, and spreads her hands either side of her to anchor herself to the mattress. 

"Get undressed," Elsa says, her face calm when she lifts her chin, and his hands fly up to start unbuttoning his shirt. He throws each piece of clothing over the foot of the bed, deliberately careless, and Elsa just watches him and reins in her smile through sheer willpower.

"Hold out your wrists," Elsa says, when he's done, naked and unflinching in front of her, and loops the cravat over his pale skin as he obeys. She knots it tight, the inside of his wrists pressing together, and hooks two fingers around the fabric from underneath to pull herself up and tug him a step closer. 

"What do you want?" Hans asks, a raw ember kind of quiet, but he's too bright-eyed to make her want to answer him right away. Elsa presses her mouth to his throat instead, her fingers still looped around his bindings to hold him still, and sucks something like a kiss into his skin before she covers it with her teeth. Hans sways into it.

"You," Elsa lies, because her entire plans tilts on teasing him mercilessly. She can feel him shiver just before she pulls away, stepping back until her thighs find the edge of the mattress. "Get on the bed," she says, slipping half a step to the side, and melts her dress away as Hans settles his head against the pillows, his hands resting low on his stomach. 

She climbs on, and straddles his hips. There's something especially lovely about this, she's found - the power in the sway of her hips, or in not letting him touch her at all after the overload of it (it is, perhaps, the way he's still straining up to find her skin anyway). Elsa grabs his wrists by the bindings and pins them above his head, before she trails her hand down his arm and nudges her mouth next to his ear.

"Keep them there," Elsa says, soft and confident. Her knees press against the thick of his thighs, Hans thrumming warm beneath her.

"Of course," he breathes, eyes bright and his lips skewed into an easy smile when she pulls back far enough to see - and there's a large part of her that's impossibly relieved to know he's as excited about this as she is, but mostly she just wants to see him _beg_.

Elsa holds that thought, and lowers herself down to bite at his collarbone. She keeps her hips high and away from his, every press of her mouth sharp and fleeting - nipping at his skin as her lips trail across his chest, savouring the shudder of him under her mouth as she teases him relentlessly. Her hands smooth up his sides, dancing up his ribs until her thumb catches over the hard bump of a nipple and Hans gasps.

Oh, she thinks, and grins. Her mouth nudges next to her thumb, finding the shape of his flesh with her tongue before she snags it between her teeth and bites down - his gasp becomes a yelp and a full-body jerk, arching up against her.

"Stay still," Elsa says, too delighted to sound commanding, and feels the whine in his chest rumble under her lips. He obeys, of course; forces himself flat against the mattress and the roll of his legs press against hers, tense and solid.

Her mouth barely leaves his skin as she crawls slowly backwards. She's wet and aching and forcing herself to be patient as she works her way down his chest with just her teeth and hands and tongue, exploring everywhere except the urgent heat of his cock that stands thick and red underneath her. He's desperately hard despite it not being touched even once, and Elsa thinks, _perfect._

The mattress dips as she shifts her weight and slips a knee between his thighs, forcing them apart until there's space for her to kneel. Her hands wrap around the back of his thighs, kissing her way down his stomach as she pushes until his knees are drawn up and his legs fall to the side, spread wide and vulnerable and giving her all the space she needs. 

Hans says something, her name or a plea that she doesn't quite catch, and Elsa scrapes her mouth along the jut of his hip. "Please," he begs, louder, and when Elsa flicks her eyes up all she can see is the sharp line of his jaw, his neck tight as he arches tense enough to see the headboard behind him. 

"Look at me," Elsa says, and sits up. Her hands stay wrapped around his thighs, curled just under his knees, and Hans whines with a roll of his shoulders and forces his chin down, pulling his wrists closer to prop up his head. He looks flushed and raw, all that pretence stripped away already as he obeys without hesitation. He's watching her like his world hangs on her next word.

"Is there something you want?" Elsa asks, and runs two fingers over the curve of his knee. 

"Whatever you're going to do," Hans says, immediate, and something in his torso clenches when she trails her fingertips down his thigh. Everything else stays perfectly still.

Elsa smiles, lopsided and devilish. "Good," she says, and forces his legs a little wider as she spreads her knees. She holds out her hand, palm flat and upwards, and there's a pleasing flicker of recognition in his expression before the ice starts to column.

"Oh," Hans says, biting his lip as the replica of his prick swirls perfect and heavy in her hand. He looks oddly intense, eyes dark and lips parted and watching her carefully - she holds onto the base and moves it between her thighs, running the tip of it along her folds before she slips it inside her - and then his head falls back to the pillow. She can see his eyelashes flutter as he blinks.

"I didn't say you could look away," Elsa says, and he pushes up again, his hands under his neck. The heat in his gaze catches somewhere behind her center, a firecracker sparking and she loves how much he _hates_ this; unable to touch her as she enjoys herself exquisitely, but he's still going to watch silent and uncomplaining just because she asked him to.

"Good boy," she says, and his gaze softens, watching her face instead of the ice as she starts to thrust it inside her. She wraps a hand over his knee to anchor herself. The sound he makes when her eyes slip shut sinks all the way into her spine. 

This wouldn't be as nearly as fun if he wasn't here to watch.

Elsa rocks her hips into it as if it's him underneath her, gasping happily when the pressure builds like a valve has slipped somewhere. It's slick and tight and wonderful, Hans begging her name like a pulse, and his foot nudges against hers as though he's edging as close as he dares. 

She opens her eyes, finds him watching her with brilliant intensity, and a breathless second later everything snaps tight as she climaxes, the slightest gasp catching in her throat.

"Let me - " Hans says, and Elsa shakes her head, holds the silence as she gathers herself back up, her fingertips digging into his knee before she lets go entirely. After weeks of just his mouth sending her to the edge she can catalogue the difference, in the absent firing of her brain - the thrust of the ice spins it tighter and smaller, more of a slow build that the sudden avalanche she gets from his tongue.

The ice slips out of her with no effort at all. Hans looks artlessly flushed, when she focuses on him again, and there's that soft burn a little to the left of where her hatred used to sit. She wants to do something stupid, that urge that keeps boiling up, his _mouth_ \- Elsa squashes it down, and distracts herself.

The shining tip of the ice down the inside of his thigh is a cold tease, and it would be impossible to miss the way his breath hitches, how his legs fall a little wider.

She lets the ice dissolve away with a twist of her hand, grinning.

"Oh. I thought," Hans starts, hopelessly unguarded for a moment, and then presses his lips together. He stretches out his arms so his head falls back down onto the pillow, his knuckles flush against the headboard.

Elsa stills, one hand wrapping gently around his thigh as the other hovers, and frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. Nevermind. Please, Elsa, I need you to touch me," he begs, but it's false, hasn't got that edge that makes her stomach contract; just a distraction, and now she's _intrigued_.

"What did you think I was going to do?" she asks, her own plan of ruthless teasing forgotten and when Hans just shakes his head and rolls his hips towards her, his cock bobbing in a way that is definitely distracting but ignorable, she plants her hands either side of his ribs and looms close.

"Tell me," Elsa demands. His throat is bare and tempting, but she'll leave it alone, for the moment. Hans just looks at her, his lips slightly parted and then -

"I thought you were going to fuck me with it," he says, quite plainly, and Elsa stares. She moves her hand to his chest, her fingers splaying wide as the tips curl down, the threat of her nails light against his flesh.

"What?" she says, frowning, and Hans bites his lip, but it does nothing at all to hide his sudden grin.

"Surely you can figure it out," he says, looking _delighted_ , glassy-eyed and flushed all over like a portrait of decadence, and Elsa glances away and finds herself looking down between them. His cock still stands hard and proud below the angle of her legs, as red as the rest of him, and his ankles are pressing behind her knees as he wraps himself around her thighs. 

"I did show you what I like best," Hans says, and oh, there it is, the memory of him on his knees in front of her as he worked two fingers inside himself. He - he thought she was going to do that with her ice. Elsa sucks in a breath as heat punches through her, sudden and aching and _needy_.

"Did you want me to?" she asks, breathy and quiet, fairly certain of the answer but she wants to hear it anyway, feel the tremor of his desperation under her palm. It's not that she had forgotten, exactly - just that she hadn't followed that image anywhere else, imagined what else she could do with that arc of him spread open and shaking.

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, and Elsa has to bite her lip to stop herself from kissing him. That's all it takes to make her feverishly hot and aching all over again, her mind racing because she wants to consider every angle of this new, impossible idea before she grabs it with both hands, and Hans is watching her with the kind of intensity that reaches down inside her and _pulls_.

She leans close, her hand spreading out across his collarbone, and lets her breath rush warmth over his ear. "What do you want me to do now?" Elsa asks, and Hans whines.

"Let me show you," he says, and tries to tug his wrists apart.

"No," Elsa hums, settling into this new thing with a familiar kind of ease. She bites at the corner of his jaw. "Tell me what you want," she says, and is thrumming happily enough to make it easy: her hand slides up to flex around his neck as the other pins down his wrists, holding him completely.

Hans melts into the mattress, heat rolling off him in endless waves, and his cheek prickles against hers as he tilts his head toward her. "Your fingers," he manages to choke out, and Elsa grins before kissing the soft underside of his jaw, soaking the _yes_ silently into his skin.

His jaw is slack, mouth open, and Hans sucks on her two fingers eagerly when she slides them between his lips. Any thoughts on how _filthy_ this is are overridden with sheer want, the anticipation of having him breathless and begging for her. Elsa skims her hand down his arm, resting it loosely near his shoulder as she leaves his hands free with the unspoken command to stay.

Hans works his tongue between her fingers, covering them both wetly until Elsa pulls her hand back with a slick kind of pop. She doesn't want to drag her mouth away from his neck - she's blushing as hard as he is, when she has the presence of mind to consider it, but maybe she just wants to whisper filth without watching every thought behind his eyes. 

She needs enough space to move, if she isn't going to sit back and study this dispassionately - Elsa stretches her spine, pushing her hips high and trails the dry tip of a finger down his side as she gets her hand between his legs, still held wide by hers.

"Tell me how you like it," Elsa murmurs.

"Just - _ah_ \- touch me," Hans says, gasping when her thumb nudges his balls on the way past, and the way his whole body shudders when her fingertip flicks over his hole is all the confirmation she needs that he really, truly wants this.

"Like that?" she says, just to hear him, and his stuttered _yes_ does not disappoint. Elsa sucks a kiss into the base of his throat and circles her finger, exploring his sensitivity as one brush makes him gasp and another makes his hips buck up, his thighs knocking hard against hers.

"More," he gasps, and between the quiet pleasure that she's reduced that silvertongue to single syllables there's a spike of something sharp as an edge of sunlight, the reminder that she wants this nearly as much as he does.

Which, is important. Because she wouldn't be doing this otherwise, Elsa tells herself. She doesn't do anything just for _him_.

Hans arches long and beautiful when she finally pushes the tip of her middle finger inside him. He clenches tight around her as she gets past the first knuckle and then he relaxes, gasping and shivering so much she almost pulls out again.

"Are you okay?" Elsa asks, more of a whisper against his skin. 

"Yes. Fuck, yes," Hans moans, and the rest is an unintelligible mix of her name and _please_ and _more_ as he spreads his legs wider and digs his heels in behind her knees, like he's trying to drag her closer.

She's fairly sure this isn't going to last much longer. Hans whines as she slows, twisting her finger as she pushes another inside him and pumps slow enough to feel every hitched gasp in response, the pleas trailing off into nothing but wordless noise. She's faintly annoyed that she didn't think to do this months ago.

Elsa sits back, skimming her hand down his chest, and wraps it around his cock. He's pulsing warm next to her skin and he looks wrecked, eyes squeezed shut and mouth stretched wide in a silent gasp and his hands fisted in the pillows, and there's a rush of something so fiercely dizzy and breathtaking that she can't do anything but let it wash over her and hope he's too far gone to hear her tiny sharp intake of breath.

"Come on," she says, because the words don't matter but the command is enough, and she barely drags her hand the full length of his cock before Hans comes with a strangled kind of cry. It spills across his stomach and then over her hand, thick and hot, and Hans gasps through it until it's over, every snap-tight muscle suddenly loose as he sinks into the mattress.

Elsa catches her breath, and then pulls her hands away. She reaches for his shirt, still clinging on to the end of the bed, and uses it to wipe them off. His eyes are still closed when she turns back, his every breath heavy, and Elsa allows herself to watch him; bites her lip, and crawls close. 

Her lips brush over his cheek and then his temple, pressing a kiss to his hair as she reaches up to loosen the knot around his wrists. "You did so well," Elsa murmurs, encouraging nonsense as Hans is still boneless and insensible beneath her, and when she slips the cotton away she delicately takes hold of each wrist and pulls his arms with her as she sits up again, leaving them to fall naturally at his sides.

Hans blinks, and stares blearily up at her, and this wasn't the plan _at all_ but she's learning to be adaptable.

"Are you okay?" she asks, again, stroking a hand down from the curve of his neck to his chest. Hans licks his lips. 

"Never better," Hans says, and, oh. It doesn't look like he's hiding anything but she can't quite decipher the way he's looking at her, the faintest crease between his brows. "You continue to surprise me," he says.

That would be it, she thinks, and can't stop herself smiling. 

"Good," Elsa says, and then, just because she can, curls close and lays her head on his chest. His arms automatically come up to wrap around her, one hand on her waist as the other finds her hair. The light across her chamber wall is soft and refracted, the afternoon slipping easily into early evening, and for a minute, at least, there is nowhere else she would rather be.

Hans makes a noise, distant and muffled like he's whispering something into her hair. Elsa lifts her head a fraction.

"What was that?" she asks, and feels his chest sink underneath her as he huffs out a breath.

"Nothing important," Hans says. He smiles when she tilts up to look at him, narrowing her eyes. "Can you stay?"

"For a while," Elsa says, and then, "I did say I was going to be working in here." She frowns, and thinks about moving.

"If you would let me help," Hans starts, and leaves the rest implied because Elsa just turns her face back to his skin and laughs. "Still no?"

"People would notice if my handwriting changed so dramatically," she says, and even she can hear her smile laced into her voice. 

"I would just add my thoughts in the margins," Hans says, but doesn't push it. He tightens his grip when she shifts to get more comfortable, stretching out her legs to find the space between his.

She should move, but she doesn't want to, and perhaps it's a day for letting herself be selfish. Elsa nuzzles against his skin, worrying him at like a pillow, and stays.


	19. what a fool you have made me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Stray Italian Greyhound - Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI) (again. not even sorry. the events of 18 & 19 were supposed to happen in the same chapter before all these words inexplicably happened.)
> 
> a couple of notes (announcements?): there are at least two chapters still to go. maybe three, but I am trying to tame it down.  
> the next update will be a day earlier than usual! it will be up sometime on the 18th.

"Elsa," he says, and she concentrates on ignoring him. 

Her pen taps against the page, the occasional scratch of the nib the only sound in her chamber, and rolling her shoulders does nothing to shake the tension low in her spine. There's an ache to _do_ something, like she needs to stretch out and have someone work their fingers into the knots of her body to tease out the strain, but she's _busy_.

"Elsa," Hans says again, seated at the other end of the table and not even pretending to read. She's aware of him watching her. She refuses to look up. "If you have so much to do you can't even acknowledge me, you could at least let me help."

She sighs, drops her pen, and lifts her chin. "Fine," she says, and Hans grins wide and surprised. He looks warm and scruffy and oddly young, having only got so far as shrugging on a shirt and buttoning it up halfway once he climbed out of (her) bed, and Elsa struggles to remember when there was last even a hint of formality between them - and, failing that, has to brush away the consideration of whether or not she misses it.

"Anna keeps asking me to choose between these," Elsa says, and starts to dig through the pile of papers and books that threaten to overflow the table. She keeps it all neat, of course, but her system of organisation was never designed to withstand Hans occasionally picking up her things and deliberately walking off, on the hope that she would follow. Her fingers snag on a cool scrap of fabric and she claws it out, freeing three squares of brightly dyed silk and holding them up. 

"She won't tell me what for, but apparently it's important," she says, and watches as Hans jumps up and strides the two steps to her end of the table. He delicately pulls the swatches from her grasp and lays them across his palm, studying them for a moment before his eyes flick up to hers.

"And you're trusting me with it? I'm honoured," he says, and just smiles as Elsa rolls her eyes and turns back to the legislation she's supposed to be reviewing. He doesn't go back to his seat - he shifts his weight so his thigh is pressing into the edge of the table and moves his hands just out of her eyesight, so the considering turn of his wrist is absolutely impossible to ignore.

"This one," Hans says, and drops the scrap of spring green onto her papers, the one that had reminded her of his eyes when Anna first bundled the lot into her hands. She'd been struck by the oddest feeling that she was being tested, before she shook it off and discarded them all onto her table, to be considered when she was feeling more sensible.

"Lovely," Elsa says, and pushes it to the side with one finger. "That will be all," she says, and keeps her head down and focused on the page so he can't see the smile hooked into her mouth. She waits.

The two other squares of fabric drop onto the side of a table, a few inches from her hand; a cold kind of blue and a soft lilac piling together.

"I respectfully disagree," Hans says, and his smile flashes through her eyeline as he drops to his knees and ducks under the table. "I can think of several things I could do for you," he says, and there's his mouth nudging along her knee, brushing her skirt out of the way. 

He's never learnt that touching her without permission is not allowed - perhaps because she so rarely enforces it. Elsa doesn't say anything but she crosses her legs, her heel tapping against the chair, and Hans just moves further up her thigh as the cut of her dress spills the fabric high across her legs. 

"You're making this difficult," he says, his breath licking warm over her skin as he barely moves away to speak. 

"Am I?" Elsa says lightly, still looking at her papers but it can wait, of course; they've reached the point where Hans can make plans on the assumption that Elsa will twist them as she wishes, and she is at least going to find out what he wants before ruining it. 

(She'll make it hers, whatever it is, and tying him to the bed and leaving him for hours is always an option when he's like this. One to be used cautiously, however - he hates it, and punishes her by being unfailingly polite for days after. It is a concern that he has realised that's a punishment.)

"Don't I deserve a reward for helping?" he says, teasing with the flick of his tongue like a promise.

"What would that be?" she says, and bites her lip when she feels the hint of his teeth.

"Something I keep in the cell," he says, and - what?

"What?" Elsa says, and his laugh is silent but she still feels it rush into her skin. 

"Under the mattress," Hans says, and tucks two fingers under her knee to coax her legs uncrossed - and there's a prickly rush of annoyance at the presumption. She almost wants to refuse on principle, but it would be all the more ridiculous to pretend she isn't interested, to wait and risk him catching her searching for something that he apparently _wants_.

Elsa makes a noise that builds low in her throat, then pushes her chair back and crosses over to the cell. There's still plaster dust in the corners, when she gets there, and the bed is made as neatly as is possible with just two rough blankets and an uneven pillow. Elsa's rocked with the sudden memory of how little he complained, stuck in here week after week - and cooled by the thought that they both knew he was exactly where he deserved to be. It's the current ease between them that's strange, not the having ever kept him locked safely away in here.

The bed, then. She picks up the nearest corner and scans underneath, seeing nothing but the wooden rungs and the dusty floor, and drops it with a hollow thud as she steps forward and reaches for the corner next to the pillow - and there, right in the middle as though to be as unmissable as possible, is a riding crop.

The mattress slips out of her grip. Elsa scrambles to hold it up, jamming her forearm against the side as she reaches for it, and ignores the soft thump of the mattress falling again as she rolls the crop over her palm and pulls it up. It feels gritty against her fingers.

"I smuggled it up under the blanket," Hans says, and Elsa glances back with a casualness she doesn't feel to find him standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the wood as he folds his arms. "I hoped it might be useful."

The dungeons, she thinks, even her internal voice going cold and flat. He brought it up from the dungeons. Her hand tightens around it, and, illogically, her first thought is the slightly cautious way that anyone ever mentions the week Hans spent down there, all euphemisms and 'whatever happened' without specifics. Anyone who knew about the crop would have noticed it missing, and drawn their own conclusions. She was too caught up in her anger to stop and think, after - she dropped it, didn't she? Just left it on the floor instead of putting it back where she found it and what the _hell_.

"I'll admit, I wasn't really thinking long-term when I picked it up. Just that I wanted to keep it, just in case," Hans says, and she's oddly grateful that he doesn't move. "Someone had left me in a bit of state."

Elsa exhales sharply. At least 'Hans kept it for himself' isn't likely to be the conclusion that anyone else came up with.

She nearly asks him what he expects her to do with it, before biting her lip, and scanning back to the entire reason she's standing here. "This is your reward?" she says, the question falling flat, and Hans smiles.

"You may have noticed," he starts, and the pause plucks at her like a void as he takes a step towards her, the breath before a fall. "I like the way you touch me."

This is a bit beyond that, surely. It's not as though she could forget the last time, how desperately hard and easily wrung-out he was after, but she'd assumed - well, it was so wrapped up in everything else that she'd never thought of it as something Hans would _want_ without some kind of purpose behind it. 

Elsa looks away, finds herself considering the crop laid across her palm, and is pinprick aware of the heat of him as Hans moves close and ghosts a hand along her side. His lips catch against her ear before he trails down to her throat, his arm wrapping around her waist, and Elsa lets herself sway into him for a second as her thoughts wander and come back together like rivers across sand.

The leather of the crop creaks as she tightens her fist around it. "Tell me," Elsa says, just to catch his attention, the press of his lips pausing. "How exactly do you imagine it?" she asks, like a test, and the hitch of his breath is everything she needs to know that he _does_.

Hans wets his lips, and pulls her closer so his mouth brushes her cheek. "You bend me over the table," Hans says softly, and oh, that is an excellent way to start. There's already the tendrils of her own plan curling around it, even as she bites her lip and concentrates and wills him to keep going.

He does, whispering the kind of divine filth that makes her blush even as he nudges a foot between hers to spread her legs and slips his hand down the crease of her thigh. The fabric between her flesh and his fingers spreads the pressure, sets everything tingling and sensitive as he finds that sweet apex and tells her how she's going to strike him, starting slow and gentle before she builds it up until he's begging her to stop.

Elsa gasps and rocks her hips into his hand, dropping the crop in order to clutch at his arm and he keeps going; how he's going to spread himself open for the promise of her ice, be forced to just lie there and take it until she's done, and it's so detailed that there's no doubt about how much he wants this; his voice rough and the rub of his fingers harder than she likes as he ruts shallow and helpless against her, his cock pressing hard against her ass - she shudders against his fingers, not quite there but so close, and even if Hans hasn't finished spinning his fantasy yet she doesn't care. She wants him _now_.

There's no warning before she twists in his arms, just the slightest flex of her knees to make his grip less secure and she shoves her arm against his chest, almost pushing him away before she manages to turn properly and fist both hands in the loose edges of his shirt. Elsa pulls as she throws herself backwards, the cell so small that in one step her back is against the wall and Hans is on her, bracing his hands against the plaster.

"That does sound tempting," she says, teasing despite the truth of it, and Hans's eyes are almost nothing but black. He presses their hips together, his cock trapped thick against her stomach, and Elsa bites back a moan. She reaches down between them and gets his breeches undone, wrapping her hand around his prick and watching his face as she runs it through her fist. 

He looks like he wants to devour her. Her skirt is tugged out of the way with one hand as the other curls under her thighs, picking her up so swiftly that she gasps, already drawing him inside her as she wraps her legs around him, and Hans pins her against the wall with the first thrust of his hips.

"Yes," Elsa gasps, her arms tight around his shoulders as she holds on and pulses into his thrusts, because this is what she adores about him - the way he knows what she wants before she has to ask for it. It's fast and vicious and rough, scratching that deep need perfectly, and even the way he's murmuring something into her skin (she catches _only_ , and _yours_ , and the rest is just vibrations through her flesh) just makes it better, overwhelming and impossibly huge as her climax hits like a storm front.

Hans holds her through it but doesn't stop, shallow thrusts as his breath runs ragged over her skin and Elsa keeps her legs tight around his hips because right now he's the only thing stopping her from sliding to the floor. Her name is wrapped around his tongue when he comes. He stills like the eye of the storm, and Elsa unhooks her ankles and lowers her feet carefully to the floor as they catch their breath.

"Is that a yes?" Hans says, quiet and hopeful, and her rough exhale comes out laughing. 

"I can work with it," Elsa says, leaning her head back against the wall, and Hans pulls away to look at her. She believes him, and feels ridiculous with it, but the way he's watching her is so raw that she can't find anything but honesty in it.

There's deliberate space between them, now, once Hans has let go and stepped back, but he reaches up and cups her jaw in a single hand. He looks like he's pulling together words from distant stars, in the constellations of her freckles.

"There were so many possible ways I had planned to make you find it," Hans muses, and Elsa is too loose to frown but she adjusts her focus, concentrates on the changing angles of his expression. His gaze flicks to her mouth and back. "Even more to make you use it. It took me a while to realise I could just ask."

His hand slips down to curl around the side of her neck, his fingertips tucking under her braid, and for a moment Elsa thinks she might just raise her chin and let him fulfil the promise of the way he's watching her.

"I'm glad," Elsa says, and means it, even as she ducks her head and slips away. She swoops down to pick up the crop, balancing it across both palms as she considers the leather, and just because she won't let herself kiss him doesn't mean she can't have fun with this. "I don't think you would like my idea of punishment if you tried to trick me into using it."

"Oh?" Hans says, and she listens to the rustle of his clothes as he tucks himself away and straightens up.

Elsa just glances back, and smiles. She strides out of the cell and goes to drop the crop onto the bedside table, deliberate and obvious, before crossing back to the table and folding herself into the chair. 

There's work to finish, and she has many ways of ruining things for her advantage but eagerness is not one of them. She needs to take it _slow_ , and be sensible, and rein in that urge to be nothing but foolish around him. If he really wants it, he can wait.

Hans follows, and then hesitates, and she glances up to find him looking at his empty seat.

"You should find something to do," Elsa says, and he drags his attention to her. "I'm not going to be done for hours."

They both look at her work piling high on the table. "Still no," Elsa says, just to get it in first. And then, in a spark of inspiration, a flash to their first hint of a conversation about _work_ \- 

"You could write me a list of everything you know about my council members," she says, light as a suggestion and no intention of making it an order. It's been almost a year since he last walked freely, but she's curious; about the extent of his research before he even arrived, what he's willing to give up. Another test, as Hans seems suddenly so eager to be honest with her.

"Are they troubling you again?" Hans says, and grins. He looks delighted to have a purpose, and suddenly wicked with it - he leans over her to steal a few sheets of blank parchment from the opposite side of the table and glides her pen out from between her fingertips on the way back. Elsa sighs, and hunts through her papers for a spare one.

There's blissful silence once he's settled in his chair and considering his work, and in the moments when she pauses in hers and glances over there's more written down than she would have expected. Elsa tells herself to concentrate, and turns back to her papers.

"There," Hans says, as the sunlight streaks low under the window. Elsa glances up, blinking twice as she pulls herself out from the depths of legalese, and finds a sheet of well-covered paper being fluttered towards her from across the table. "There's everything I can remember off-hand, at least. I put a mark next to the ones with the most potential," he says, and smiles, watching her.

"Thank you," Elsa says automatically, and then, "Oh," when she catches it up and sees exactly how much he's written. _A lot_ is apparently the answer to both her curiosities.

"I have no use for any of it," Hans says, and Elsa looks at him once before skimming through what's there. She deliberately doesn't consider the marked ones any differently from the rest, whatever Hans is trying to draw her attention towards or from, and when she's done she holds the page by one corner and lets her frost eat through it. It dissolves into the air without a trace. 

Hans huffs a laugh; the bitter edge snags at her attention. "And apparently neither do you."

"I was curious," Elsa admits. There are one or two things she couldn't forget if she tried (the price each member of her council could potentially be bought for, especially), but that wasn't the point. Hans gets it before she even opens her mouth to explain, to soften it.

"Elsa," he says, and there's a laugh she hasn't heard in a while, like she's the punchline to a joke she only caught the end of. It's oddly self-depreciating. "I would do _anything_ you asked of me. Is it too much to ask for a little trust?"

"I do," she says, and when Hans just stares at her in narrow-eyed surprise Elsa amends, "When I know what you want."

"Ah," Hans says, his smile slipping secret as he stands up and rounds the table. Elsa doesn't resist as he picks up her hand, her fingers curling over his, and urges her onto her feet. For a moment he holds her gaze, the few inches difference in their height obvious in a way she doesn't usually consider, standing silent and a breath apart - and then Hans neatly sidesteps her so he can take her seat and pulls her into his lap, wrapping an arm around her waist as Elsa roughly lands side-saddle.

" _Hey_ ," Elsa says, pushing her hands against his chest as she moves to get up, but Hans catches her wrist and holds her still. His raw strength is enough to stop her entirely but she could force him away, if she wanted - she's never unarmed. 

(That strength always surprises her, even though it shouldn't. She's caught him doing press ups more than once, coming back to her chamber at an unexpected time to find him barefoot and shirtless and apparently not just doing it for attention because he's flushed and shining with sweat, and then he ruins it with a wolfish grin as he catches her looking.)

Elsa glowers, instead of burning ice straight into his flesh. Hans smiles, small and wondrous as he looks at her.

"You are everything I want," he says, and Elsa closes her eyes as he pulls her closer, his mouth pressing warm under her jaw. She believes that, too, but she's always assumed he meant _unmarried heir_ , not - not _her_.

 

"I've never asked anyone else for this, you know," Hans says, half lost in the shifting darkness as Elsa turns out the oil lamp and snuggles back under the covers. 

"Mm," Elsa agrees, and leans back against him as his arm finds her waist. "I can't imagine you asking for anything. Not when you could convince someone it was their idea in the first place."

His breath huffs warm against her neck, silent, and she can't figure out if it was a laugh or something else. "That's not what I meant," he says, eventually, and Elsa presses her lips together. She waits. 

Several long, quiet minutes pass, and when Elsa strains to hear him there's only his breath, slow and steady and most definitely asleep.

She's almost forgotten that he said anything, by the morning. The riding crop stays on the bedside table like a promise, but it's over a week before Elsa clears her desk and schedule enough to have the time for it (Anna keeps waylaying her in corridors and demanding her opinion or approval, with any protest about her anniversary still being weeks away met with, "Less than a month, _Elsa_ ". She had smiled when Elsa finally pressed the soft lilac square into her hand, though).

If she's honest, she's been dragging it out mostly just for the way Hans keeps watching her, all coiled heat and dark-eyed anticipation.

" _Finally_ ," is all he says when Elsa comes back from an oppressively dull lunchtime meeting and tells him to get undressed. He's buttoned up more formally than usual, a waistcoat and cravat on over the neatly fastened shirt, and as his fingers work through the little shell buttons Elsa reaches up and unknots his cravat, tugging it away from his collar with a sharp pull. 

Hans's breath catches when she brushes her fingertips against his neck, fixing his collar on a pretence and cutting off whatever remark he was about to make, and Elsa lets herself smile as widely as she feels. There's this absurd spark of happiness at the thought of what she's about to do, brighter than she's used to. 

She tells herself it's just excitement (tells herself to be sensible, which is all the more ridiculous considering what she's about to do to him), and wraps the cravat loosely around her palm to hold it. Hans shrugs off the shirt and waistcoat in one move, catching them up before laying them over the back of the armchair he recently jumped up from, and starts unfastening his breeches as Elsa glances around the room. Her gaze falls on the door. It's locked, of course, but the last time she did anything like this there was a foot of ice stopping anyone from being able to hear.

The paint rubs smooth against her fingertips, when she walks over to consider it. Elsa inclines her head, listening for a moment just in case there's someone coming, and then presses her free palm against the wood. Frost spills out in aimless swirls before sticking, filling the tiny gaps in the frame and stuffing up the lock, and she steps back as the ice grows and twists until the door is covered, sparkling thickly.

"Beautiful," Hans says, sounding sincere, and Elsa glances back to find him naked and waiting for her, already standing next to the long side of the table with his fingertips splayed out over the wood like he's putting down roots. The book he was reading is the only thing left on it, tossed the moment after he leapt to his feet to follow her orders, and Elsa walks around him to pick it up and drop it onto the seat of the armchair. 

"Spread your feet wider," Elsa says, turning around to face him fully as she loosely crosses her arms, and grins when he raises an eyebrow. It shouldn't be a surprise that she's not going to stick to the plan he whispered in her ear - the main details will stay, of course, but everything else is hers.

Hans obeys as soon as she takes a step towards him, his weight swaying as he spreads his legs and Elsa walks behind him to watch, her shadow brushing over him. The table edge presses into the top of his thighs.

"Further," Elsa says, and lightly taps his ankle with her toes like a suggestion. She wants him stretched out and off-balance, forced to put all his weight over the table, but it takes Hans a couple more nudges to get there. She isn't satisfied until both feet are a short, equal distance from the table legs - and then she raises both hands and sends two precise bursts of ice that land as shackles around his ankles, linked to the table legs by thick, unforgiving chains.

Hans makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cut-off gasp. "You could have warned me," he says, a touch winded. 

Elsa licks her lips, and considers the trembling tension of his shoulders for a moment. All his weight is on his hands, pressed flat near the centre of the table to keep himself upright. "I'll take them off if you really want," Elsa says, and means it. 

"No," Hans says, immediately. Elsa frowns, and steps closer.

"Are you sure?" she says, reaching up to skim a hand across his back, the tips of her fingers trailing the knots in his shoulders, like she's trying to trace the lie.

"Elsa," he says, and this time there's definitely laughter laced through the word, his arms drawing back like he's trying to press into her touch. "If I don't like something, I will let you know. Please, continue," he says, openly mocking, and turns his head just enough for her to see the twist of his smile.

Warmth flares somewhere deep in her chest. "Fine," she says, unable to hide her smile even as she flattens her hand against his spine to shove him forward. "Bend over."

Hans goes easily, sliding his hands forward until they curl over the far edge of the table and he lowers himself onto his elbows. "Hands behind your back," Elsa says, and the noise he makes is delicious; appreciative and annoyed all at once.

His spine locks straight as he ends up mostly resting on his chest and his shoulders, his head turned to the side and his wrists pressing over the small of his back. Elsa steps into the space between his legs as she unwraps the cravat from around her hand, his face going tight as she ties it around his crossed wrists. 

"You aren't supposed to be comfortable," she points out, and Hans laughs, once and sharp, his whole body jerking back from it in the unnatural position. 

Elsa steps back again and just considers him - tied up and spread out and entirely at her mercy, all that pale skin freckled and waiting to be marked - and lingers a moment longer than she should before she scolds herself into concentrating and turns on her heel, striding across the room to pick up the riding crop. 

It shines as she runs her palm along the length of it (not gritty anymore, a stray thought notes, and Elsa can only imagine Hans going to the trouble of carefully cleaning it and putting it back in the exact same place while she was elsewhere. The only surprise is how much she likes that, his eagerness for this when she's not even here), and she taps the folded leather tip of it against her palm, once, experimenting.

"You're supposed to do that to me," Hans says, and Elsa turns to look at him. He's at entirely the wrong angle to see his face, pushing up on his toes and shifting like he's still trying to get settled. He stops, when she crosses back over to the table and lightly flicks the tip against his back, just next to his half-curled fingers. There's the barest shiver of a flinch. 

"Please?" he adds, unnecessarily, close enough now that she can see the dark flush already soaking through his cheeks, his fingers straightening and flexing before settling, and Elsa allows herself a smile. 

"Stay still," Elsa says, and stands half a pace to the side. She doesn't ask if he's ready - the first touch of the crop over his ass is as light as the tap against his back, more of a teasing brush than a strike, and Hans's breath rushes loud as his spine curves, the arch of his feet stretching up.

The sweetness of the first touches set the skin tingling, so when she strikes down hard enough to hear the crop cutting through the air he yelps, bucking against the table. Hans gasps for air, his hands grasping at nothing, and Elsa doesn't give him time to adjust before bringing it down again, whipping across the fleshiest part of his cheeks.

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, swearing when she hits again. He jerks at every strike but still rocks back for more, red lines blooming across his skin and Elsa draws back and holds for a second to just look at him - his brows are knitted tight but his mouth is slack and open, blissfully lost in it already.

Her muscles sing with the exertion. She's less than ten hits in but she's flushed and tense, and she keeps going - Hans specified ' _until I'm screaming_ ' but she's not interested in that, not when she could have the arc of him all trembling coiled tension and shuddering with the lightest touch. The noise he makes with every strike is exquisite, stuttered moans and breathy pleas that hit somewhere low in her belly.

It's perfect. Elsa keeps going until his skin is barred with red from his ass to the top of his thighs, overlapping and criss-crossing until she can't see each individual strike anymore, and she brings the crop down one more time to watch the full-body jerk of him. There's an answering tightness above her core, hot and lovely, and she holds onto that as she lays the crop neatly and innocuously next to him on the table, out of his line of sight.

"Okay?" Elsa checks, and Hans just hums in acknowledgement, eyes still lightly shut. There's a shiver in his skin before she even touches him, ghosting her fingertips over the throbbing heat of his flesh before she's registered the idea that she wants to, but she lets herself indulge in the absent twitch of his muscles. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the table, the tip rubbing sticky against the wood, and Hans sighs as Elsa pulls away and walks silently over to the bedside table again.

Her oil lamp sits cold and dull on top of it. She picks it up, careful and delicate, and takes it back to the table. They use olive oil in their lamps, a fact Hans seemed strangely delighted by when he asked and she found out, but she's never been more glad of it as she delicately lifts the lid off the reservoir and dips two fingers in. 

Hans whines when he blinks his eyes open and sees what she's doing. "I thought -" he starts, shifting as he tries to get enough air to speak, and Elsa grins.

"Could you reach?" she asks, and trails her slick fingertips down the crease of his ass, his bruised heat tickling against her skin.

Hans swears and tries to push back against her hand. His own fingers clutch at the air and his arms are pulled so tight that he can't even get close enough to stir the fine hairs down her arm. She's torn, for a moment, between untying him so she can watch him do this to himself and keeping him so utterly at her mercy - but then her fingertips brush over his hole and her mind is made up as he gasps so beautifully. 

Next time, Elsa thinks, and feels giddy with it. 

"Please," Hans begs, artlessly unspecified, but he groans happily when she slides both fingers inside of him, tight and slow and so _hot_. His eyes flutter shut as she pushes in another, stretching him out as she tries to make sure he's as slick as possible but she can't stop marvelling at the way he whimpers, begging for more as she pumps her hand shallowly and gasping when she slides deeper, so gorgeously eager for it that she almost forgets she's supposed to be using her ice. 

"I'm ready, _fuck_ , please, I'm ready," Hans says, breathy and half lost as he ruts against the table. Elsa pulls her hand away and scoops out more oil regardless of his begging, coating him so generously that it drips down his thighs and she bites her lip when her knuckles brush over his raw skin - he flinches, sucks in a sharp breath and then lets it out as he settles back, relaxing as much as possible.

"Stop being such a tease," he breathes, and smiles unguarded and guileless as Elsa laughs in surprise.

Her dress is dissolved away with one sweep of her hand and she pulls together her favourite toy with the other, the ice prick settling familiar in her hand. It sparkles in the light, every vein and ridge finely picked out. Elsa studies it for a long moment before she rubs her hand along the length and leaves it shiny and slick. 

Hans groans faintly and rocks hard against the table. "Be patient," Elsa says, but when she looks up he's watching her through heavy lids and blown-dark eyes, his gaze fixed on the ice as she holds it lower and presses the base against her sweetly sensitive skin. Frost spills out like tendrils and wraps around her hips, holding it firmly against her.

 _Oh_ , she thinks, as she steps between his tautly spread legs and presses the tip of the prick against his hole, the slightest push back rubbing against her core. 

"Come _on_ ," Hans says, everything corded tight as he rolls his hips back, spread out so wantonly for her that Elsa pauses just to watch him, grinning as she draws it out for a few seconds longer; his fists clenched over his back and his lip caught between his teeth. There's breathless anticipation in the line of his shoulders down to the arch of his feet, still up on his toes as he tries to line himself up perfectly.

Elsa curls her clean hand over the cravat binding his wrists, keeps her fingers tight around the ice, and slowly pushes in. 

"Fuck, yes," he says, panting open mouthed against the wood and she slides in deeper, watching her ice disappear inside him as Hans whines long and breathless. He's never been so _vocal_ before, every inch met with a hitch of his breath and she keeps going, driving her hips forward until her thighs brush his red raw skin and he flinches helplessly.

"Good boy," Elsa says, like a gift, and Hans loosens underneath her. She keeps hold on his wrists like reins and curls her hand around his hip, feeling the flex on his muscles just under her palm, and is so close already that she rolls her hips forward just to feel the ice rubbing against her so gorgeously. Her breath catches and Hans moans something unintelligible in response, his spine sinking down as he pushes back against her. 

She didn't actually expect it to feel this _good_. Elsa pulls back an inch and slides back in just to hear that groan again, her hips hitting his ass with a light smack and Hans tenses beautifully, gasping even as he rocks back to meet her. His skin is so warm under her hand, slick with oil and sweat and she watches him as she does it again, his eyes shut and the crease between his brows and the stutter of his breath, so gloriously abandoned to whatever she wants.

Almost out of curiosity, she slides her hand across his stomach and finds his cock so hard and sensitive that he jerks forward when she touches it, his thighs slamming into the table edge. Elsa follows, pins him there with her hips flush against his bruised flesh and he's a trembling mess beneath her, his cock sliding thick against her fingers as his bound hand manages to clutch at her forearm, begging with the angle of his fingertips. 

She bites back the sweetness that want to spill off her tongue and thrusts inside him instead. His cock runs through her fist with every push, her knuckles sharp against the table and Elsa can't stop herself from gasping out loud; the pressure against her core and the sight of him stretched wide, the flex of his back as he bucks into her hand sending the ache between her thighs spiralling into desperation, and she's so _close_ -

Elsa comes with a rough gasp, stilling for a long second as everything twists tight and sparks through her skin, and Hans keens beneath her. 

"Please," he begs, like he thinks she might _stop_ , and Elsa catches her breath, bites her lip, and lets go of his wrists so she can curl a hand over his shoulder. She bends close, bracing herself up as she presses a kiss between his shoulderblades and delights in the tense knots under his skin.

"Tell me how much you want it," she murmurs, somewhere near his neck and she can feel the heat of him scalding up to find her, his arms trapped under her as she rocks into him - and something about the new angle makes him cry out, gasping wetly against the table. His cock throbs heavy against her palm.

The only word she can make out is her name, the rest lost in desperation as he tries to push back against her ice despite being pinned so thoroughly. Elsa grins before she latches her mouth over the thick of his shoulder and bites until he gasps just from that, and then takes pity - she pushes up, throwing her weight forward to keep him pinned down as she starts to roll her hips into him like crashing waves. Hans gasps, cries out and then he's coming hard over her fingers, his breath shuddering as she rides him through it.

He looks so beautifully ruined, harmless and vulnerable with his eyes closed and blissed-out and every angle of him sweetly exhausted, that the notion of how overwhelmingly she adores him grabs hold before she can stop it.

" _Oh_ ," she gasps, desperately quiet and almost lost in the white noise of after, and suddenly doesn't know what to do with her hands. She pulls back as delicately fast as possible, dissolving her ice back into nothing with a twist of her fingers. 

Hans hums quietly and then opens his eyes, bleary and unfocused, and it takes a moment before he shifts enough to look at her. "What?" he says, the end of it trailing into an breath. Now that the thought is there, bright and solid at the front of her mind, it's unmovable as a glacier. She stares at him, the urge to run itching low in her spine. Elsa bites her lip. 

"Stay still," she says. There's something she can do despite the hard flutter in her chest - he obeys, a smile caught in the corner of his mouth as he watches her sleepily. Elsa leans close enough to untie his wrists, slipping the cravat away and absently wrapping it around her palm again before she steps two paces back, waving away the chains around his ankles. 

There's a quiet, stretched-out groan as as he moves. He brings his arms down to brace against the table and draws his legs together, still trembling as he rolls his shoulders and forces himself up to standing, and his foot slips against the floor. Elsa jerks with the need to catch him but he's fine, twisting around to sit on the table - he hisses as all his weight presses down on his bruised skin but he doesn't move again, staring down at the floor as his hands clutch white-knuckled at the table edge.

A breath, and then Hans looks up to catch her eye and her chest lurches. "Elsa," he says, soft and pleading and, no, she can't deny herself this - she crosses the gap between them and winds her arms around his shoulders, gathering him close like everything's fine. Hans leans his forehead against her collarbone, her hand combing up into his hair.

"I've got you," Elsa says, and his breath rushes warm against her skin. 

"You're incredible," he says, faintly muffled before he pulls back just enough to look up at her, scant inches between them - and there's no warning at all before he has both hands around her jaw and is kissing her so sloppily it hardly counts as a kiss at all, just a wet crush of his mouth before he slips away and buries his face in her neck. 

"Sorry," he says, and Elsa's chest is heaving. "I know we don't... I had to," Hans says, and her lip tingles where his tongue brushed quick and rough. She presses her teeth over it.

His hand slips down from her neck to clutch around her waist, his fingertips digging in, and she absently notes that her arms are caught stiff in mid-air. They drape around his shoulders again, one hand drifting soft over the back of his neck, and she presses a kiss to his hair without considering what it means.

Hans sighs, hot and damp against her throat, and all she can do is hold on.


	20. as certain dark things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Sonnet XVII by Pabulo Neruda](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/121705-sonnet-xvii-i-do-not-love-you-as-if-you). (I can't believe I got all the way to chapter 20 without stealing from Neruda)
> 
> I am dreadfully sorry to do this, but the next update is probably not going to be until November 9th. I'm going on holiday for two weeks from tomorrow (hence early update) and mostly likely won't have any time to write. The final chapter isn't finished and I want to make it perfect, so I'm giving myself an extra week to get it done. I am so sorry! I hope this chapter makes up for it, a bit <3  
> (and on the very remote chance I do get it done during holiday, I still won't be able to update before the 3rd. just fyi!)
> 
> I love you all <3333

Summer settles in, and Elsa tries to follow suit. After the initial surge of panic there are days when she can't decide if she wants him locked away or as close as possible, the waves of her affection crashing against logic until she is exhausted, and she has never before realised quite how absurd her bed was - huge and empty like it's trying to swallow her whole. 

Elsa tells herself she's being ridiculous. It's the same thought she had as she sent Hans to his cell for the night on the flimsiest of excuses (most likely he assumed it was punishment for the kiss, and somehow that made her feel even _worse_ ), and again for the next three nights on the vain hope that distance might be the key to making her feel _less_.

It hasn't worked at all, of course, and she misses him so terribly it claws at her throat. It must be close to morning by now. There would be no point letting him out as the sky seeps inky-blue in preparation for dawn, so she stays staring up in the darkness, alone and cold and feeling an awful lot like she's punishing herself. 

The next night he's back in her bed, his arms tight around her waist and words that sound suspiciously close to apologies being soaked into her skin, and Elsa is too tired to be anything but honest in her feelings as she melts into it. She needs this. It's been almost a year of being unable to stay away from him, regardless of how much she once wanted to, and the answer - as always - seems to be keep him close.

She's hidden bigger secrets than this before. Telling him is out of the question, of course, but whenever she tries to rationalise _why_ all she gets is a hot kind of terror. Kissing him would be even worse, the ghost of his mouth still tingling every time she thinks about it, and she shakes it off so roughly that one of her councillors leans over to ask if she's alright.

After months of both Hans and Anna pestering her she's become quite masterful at skirting around subjects she wants to avoid. Distraction, it seems, is the key, and Elsa starts to settle into the idea, and even if her heart starts pounding when he catches her eye it's at least no longer with an undercurrent of panic.

The weeks pass faster than she would like, her jubilee rushing nearer, and she feels anything but ready on the morning she wakes up and sees her dress for the day hanging on the stand. It's all soft lilac and rosemaling looking vivid even in the early morning light, and for a long, quiet minute there's nothing but tentative silence as Elsa stares it down, just the distant sounds of the castle waking up and the town in the distance. Hans is unmoving and and breathing deep enough to be firmly asleep, his arms still wrapped loosely around her.

It's a fraction of the terror she felt on the morning of her coronation, but still, it's enough to make her sigh and curl closer, resting her head on his chest as she settles down. She'll let herself have a minute of this, silent comfort that not even Hans is allowed to know about, and then she'll move.

She didn't have anyone a year ago, Elsa thinks, and that thought twists oddly in her chest, a very old wound and a fresh kind of happiness bubbling together. She's still _here_ , her kingdom still loves her despite everyone knowing about her powers, and the only secret she has is something that's meant to be private anyway - even if she does keep having to fight down the impossible urge to confess everything to Anna.

(The only daydream she gets lost in these days is the one where Anna spontaneously decides to forgive Hans for everything, and is the first to suggest she pardons him.)

There's nothing to be scared _of_ , she tells herself, but the trickle of panic doesn't shift. She lifts her hand and sends a sparkle of frost out across the room, letting it find its own form, and her gaze drifts to Hans as the snowflakes glitter and disappear.

He looks warm and fragile in the half-light, the bruises on his neck almost gone, shadows of yellow sinking back into his skin - he doesn't even have to bargain with her to get the things he wants, these days. He's stopped asking for the things she can't give him, but she's still rebuilding her defences every day just in case he does, too seasoned in dealing with him to expect that's the end of it.

It works, for now, and Elsa doesn't let herself hope it will last.

The hand curved around her ribs flexes wide, Hans shifting underneath her as he starts to wake, and he smiles before his eyes are open. 

"Hi," he says, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he looks at her, and his smile is wide and sweet and directly linked to the jolt in her chest. "Let me be the first," he starts, and has to pause for a yawn. Elsa grins. "- To congratulate you on your first year as queen," he finishes, and brushes his fingertips up her spine.

Elsa's smile slips, and falls away. "One of my ancestors was on the throne for eight months before he was forced to abdicate," she says, staring unseeing past his shoulder. "At least I've lasted longer than him."

"You're doing brilliantly," Hans says, and catches up her hand in order to bring it to his mouth and press a kiss over her knuckles. "And you'll be brilliant today."

Something warm and overwhelming rushes through her, so Elsa groans quiet and hides her face in the crook of his neck. She can handle this, truly - except when he's like this, a promise of everything she's never even allowed herself to want. Hans laughs, soft and genuine.

"I need to get on," Elsa says, faintly muffled, and at least he will hopefully assume she's embarrassed by the affection. It's close enough to the truth. "Stop distracting me."

"Go, then," Hans says, and doesn't release her hand. "Although - perhaps if I help you prepare for your speech, you'll allow me to escort you to the ball this evening?"

These days, he only tries to bargain for the things they both know she won't give him. "I would wear a disguise, if that would help," he adds as Elsa doesn't reply, his chest rumbling with the words. "Or you could keep me on a leash."

Elsa lifts her head to look at him, the fizzing warmth settled down enough to look him in the eye again. "I imagine you'd slip it quite easily," she says, caught somewhere between exasperation and bemusement.

"Not if you ordered me not to," Hans says, quiet and serious despite the gentle way he's watching her. They just stare at each other for a moment, Elsa's hand still caught under his, his arm wrapping warm around her waist, and this feels tangible enough to be struck. "All I want is one dance," he says, and grins lopsided enough to loosen it.

"I don't dance," Elsa says, and forces herself to move before she does something irreversible. She spares him a quiet smile as she pulls away and throws back the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and approaches the dress with a steely kind of determination that just seems to replace one kind of tension with another. 

It feels a little less foreboding, once she's got it on. More wool and cotton than a representation of everything she nearly lost. She smooths it down with the flat of her palms, and looks up to find Hans sat up against the pillows, watching her with a considering crease between his brows.

"I prefer the ice," he says, with the kind of look that makes her think of firelighters, the inevitably of heat. Elsa raises an eyebrow. "Why are you wearing that?" 

It was delivered late last night, while she kept Hans hidden away in the cell, and she has spent so long standing around in it while Anna's dressmaker fussed about the fittings that she had forgotten Hans has never seen it in the light of day.

"It's traditional," Elsa says, immediate, before the impulse to be honest strikes her. "And to remind everyone that I am the Queen of Arendelle before I am _the Snow Queen_. For one day a year I would like to do something by the book."

"Ah," Hans says, and doesn't elaborate, a deliberate challenge in the tilt of his head. An invitation in the long line of his neck. 

_I'm too busy_ , Elsa reminds herself, digging her nails into her palms, and goes to perch in front of her dressing table.

The reflection of him slides out of bed and disappears into the cell as Elsa fixes her hair, braiding it into a long twist that sweeps up and clips above her ear, pinning the length of it in place. Her tiara, the same one she was crowned with and that was found (to her immense surprise) at the ice palace, sits in its silk-lined box. 

Elsa rubs her thumb across the shining blue stone, watching it catch the light for a moment before she lifts her chin and sets the tiara just above her fringe, neatly secured in the thick twist of her hair.

Her reflection looks an awful lot like the woman she was a year ago. Sunlight streaks bright across her chamber, the sky perfectly blue and clear beyond her window, and Elsa clasps her bare hands together, her skin cool but uncovered. She catches herself smiling.

There's a knock of three precise taps at the door, jolting her back. "Your Majesty?" Kai calls. "It's almost time for breakfast. Your councillors have started to arrive."

"Show them to the small dining hall," Elsa calls back, checking her reflection one last time before standing up. "Tell them I'll be with them shortly."

"Very good, Ma'am," Kai says, and Elsa brushes down her skirts again, short sharp flicks of her hands that do nothing to regain her calm. Panic settles across her mind like a mist. She can do this. She just -

"What's first on the agenda?" Hans asks, and she darts her gaze over to him, standing at the foot of the bed as he fixes his cuffs. He got dressed while she was fussing in front of the mirror; his boots shine and his high-cut trousers fit neatly, buttoned up smartly in a shirt and waistcoat and cravat in complementary blues.

Elsa lets herself look at him, anchors herself to the solid realness of his straight stance and slightly curled lip as he smooths down an errant cufflink, and runs through her schedule like a mantra. "Breakfast with my councillors, to thank them for all the guidance this past year," she says, and takes a breath. 

It's not like she can take him with her. She needs to go, if only to arrive politely early instead of the correct regal amount of late, and she clenches her fists tight for a beat before loosening them. Elsa forces herself to step forward like she's leading the charge into battle. 

She gets all the way to the door, her hand halfway to the key, before a tiny nagging worry smothered by the panic finally finds its voice. "Hans," she says, just as he says her name, and turns with a jolt to find him right behind her.

"Sorry," Hans says, his grin wide and warm. "I just wanted to wish you good luck."

"Thank you?" Elsa says, narrowing her eyes a fraction as she tilts her head. Her skin prickles with the closeness like it's trying to reach for him, and she really does not have time for whatever game he's playing. It's hard to tell herself no when he's looking at her like that, like a mirror of her own recklessness.

Hans ducks his head, and leans a little closer. "Just remember you are their queen," he murmurs, like he's sharing a secret, and Elsa turns her cheek towards him. "And they're far more scared of you than you are of them."

A laugh bursts out of her, a spark of delight she didn't know she was capable of right now, and she belatedly brings up a hand to cover her mouth. Hans pulls away, grinning.

Elsa lets herself sink back against the door. "At least Anna will be there. I have to make a speech," she admits. That's not the source of this anxiety, not exactly - this panic is senseless and all the harder to rationalise away for it - but it is just one more thing she has to get through.

"You said," Hans muses, and she feels him watching her as she straightens up again and half-turns towards the door. "You'll be fine. Relax," he says, and that's sweet, her favourite method of release giving her advice on relaxation. And then, _oh._

You haven't got time, says a tiny, sensible voice leading the charge of rationality, but she squashes it down. She's foolish around him, Elsa knows, but the spark he inspires in her skin makes her feel like she can do anything.

"Hans," she says, glancing towards him, steel behind her tongue and something in his center snaps immediately to attention. "Get on your knees."

He looks, for a split-second, caught between admiration and surprise, and then he drops gracefully to the floor, his knees inches from her feet. "My queen," Hans says, looking up at her through his eyelashes.

For an unsteady moment she tries to wave away her dress with a thought, before she feels the slide of cotton against her legs as Hans rucks up her skirt. This closeness is all the permission he needs, nudging her legs wide as his mouth surges up against her, and Elsa grabs onto the doorframe as that hot pressure snaps everything gorgeously tight.

"Good," Elsa gasps, and fists her free hand in her skirt. Hans digs his fingers into her hips and flicks his tongue up against her, curling secrets into her skin as that familiar loveliness spirals in her center. It's wet strokes and his tongue constantly changing pace so she can never adjust, perfectly relentless, and Elsa bites back a moan. 

It's possible her knees are feeling slightly weak. Her hand grips harder onto the frame, heat bolting through her as Hans crooks his fingers inside and she's wound so tight and -

Someone knocks loud and tuneful against the door. "Elsa? I thought we could walk down together?" Anna calls, her voice lilting and Elsa jerks forward, swallowing a gasp.

"Of course!" she manages, and bites her lip for an unstable second. "I'll be - _ha_ \- out in just a minute."

"Are you okay?" Anna says, and Elsa shudders as quietly as possible as Hans doesn't stop. There's a low, muffled sound that might be laughter, thrumming through her skin. This was her fault, she thinks distantly. She hates him completely.

"Fine! Just - getting ready!" Elsa says, fixing her eyes on the ceiling, and this is mortifying but apparently also working for her because a few short seconds later she's coming with an utterly silent gasp, her knuckles white against the doorframe.

The harsh sound of her breathing echoes far too loud in her chamber, just standing there still clinging to the wood as she tries to catch her breath, and Elsa's only distantly aware of Hans slipping away and backing out from under her skirts. He's swiping the pad of his thumb across his lips as she looks up, and glares at him.

 _Sorry_ , he mouths, but the twist of his smile behind his hand looks more genuine, that secret devilishness he keeps offering like a gift. Her pulse is racing, the need to do something tingling in her fingertips - she feels hot and foolish and slightly light headed, struck by the most ridiculous urge to laugh. 

She yanks him close with a finger hooked in his collar. "That was the opposite of relaxing," Elsa whispers into his ear, rough and breathless. Her lips catch at his earlobe.

"I believe that was your idea," Hans murmurs back, and doesn't waste the opportunity to press his wet mouth against her neck, one hand curled around it as he sucks a kiss into her skin. "You should take me with you. You could keep me hidden under the table. Let me keep you entertained," he says, latching his mouth over her throat again like he's daring to leave a _mark_.

"No," Elsa says, a fraction louder than she would like, and buries her face in his neck. Takes a slow, deep breath, lets it out in a kind of laugh, and forces herself to concentrate. She grips his shoulders as she takes a firm step back, and still feels giddy, dropping her hands back down to her sides in curled fists.

"Elsa?" Anna calls, like a drop of cold water on the back of her neck, and Elsa whips her head up and locks eyes with Hans. He's already moving back as she shoos him away, flattening himself against the wall so no one in the corridor could see him unless they stepped inside.

Right. She can do this. Presses a hand against her chest for six too-quick beats, takes a deep breath, and thinks of glaciers as she reaches for the key.

"Hi!" Anna says, the crease between her eyebrows smoothing out into a wide grin as soon as Elsa opens the door. "Um, Linn's got something for you," she says, and points to her left, where a maid carrying a covered basket stands. Linn stares at the floor and drops into a short curtsey.

"As you requested, Ma'am," she says, without looking up, and holds the basket out as far as possible without moving. Oh. This is what she meant to tell Hans about, before he distracted her. 

"Thank you," Elsa says, the wicker creaking as she wraps her fingers around the handle, and the maid dips into another quick curtsey before turning on her heel and hurrying off. Anna looks between her and the basket, rocking on the balls of her feet. 

"Are we having a picnic for breakfast?"

"It's for Hans," Elsa admits, and watches the ripple of distaste cross Anna's mouth. Hans moves just at the edge of her sight, like he's settling, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "I can't take time off from my schedule to bring him meals three times today," she says. Doesn't look at him.

"Right," Anna says, and bites her lip. 

"I'll just, um. Give me one second," Elsa says, smiling short and placating as she pushes the door until it's shut, the metal of the catch clicking against the frame, and turns sharply on her toes.

 _Stay_ , she mouths, as Hans pushes away from the wall. He holds up his hands for a second, bare palms facing her, before he presses a finger against his lips and grins. Her still-fast pulse quickens.

She hasn't got this under control at all, Elsa thinks, and ducks her head as something in her face aches, her expression pulling strange. The basket hits the table with an unavoidable thud and she skirts around him when Hans takes a step towards her, his fingertips brushing her arm before she hurries past and grabs the door handle. The metal burns cold under her palm. 

There's the urge to say something, but Anna is listening and she's buried the words under weeks of pretending - so she looks at her dress instead of him, smoothing it down, and spares a glance towards his feet just to check he's out of the way before opening the door and slipping through. If there's a noise behind her it's lost under the sound of the door clicking shut, the lock turning with a satisfying clunk.

"That _was_ really fast," Anna says, and beams wide and bright when Elsa looks up, her fingers only lingering on the door for a moment before she clasps her hands in front of her. "Which is good, I mean, it would be weird if you took ages. Did you even say anything to him - ?"

"Ready?" Elsa says, feeling anything but, and holds out the crook of her elbow for Anna to take. Distractions, she thinks. Months of planning these celebrations and suddenly they're just there to keep her mind occupied as something in her chest burns off-center and overwhelming.

"I was born ready," Anna says, pulling her close as she bumps their shoulders together hard. "I hope you're prepared for a whole day of nothing but having fun with me."

"Oh? Are we not going to see my councillors right now, then?"

"Yeah, but," Anna says, and the slant of her smile is nothing but mischief. "I've prepared a _surprise_."

Elsa covers her mouth as she laughs, her chest easing. Perhaps, this won't be as hard as she feared. 

 

It's late when she returns to her chamber, the sky deep and dark and covered with stars as the night tips towards tomorrow, and although the musicians have left she can still hear the distant burble of chatter, her guests spilling out of the castle and into the courtyard and away. It went quicker than she thought it would, and easier - Anna almost never left her side, and made sure every surprise was a good one. Her cheeks hurt from laughing.

A good day, unexpectedly. Even the unbalancing act of the morning is distant enough to not be able to pluck at her skin; every inch of her is loose, and relaxed, and _happy_. She unlocks the door quietly and blinks into the darkness, her chamber nothing but shadows after the dazzling chandeliers of the Great Hall and the corridors still all brightly lit - it takes a moment to find Hans, and then she lifts a hand to cover her grin.

He's fast asleep on her bed, propped up against the pillows with his legs spread, one knee slightly raised and falling to the side. His head rests against the board, dipping towards his shoulder. There's a closed book in the space between his thighs, his forearms draped over his hips like it slipped out of his hands as he drifted off to sleep.

Elsa bites her lip, her cheeks aching with the smile that she can't make herself lose. She locks the door behind her as quietly as possible, slips out of her shoes, and the scant moonlight is just enough to let her tiptoe barefoot to the side of the bed without bumping into anything on the way.

"Hans," she whispers, a breeze in the stillness, and he doesn't move. 

The book he was reading is old and worn, the corners slightly ragged, and it's too dark to see the engraved title but the fabric binding is smooth as she picks it up and carefully sets it on the low table beside her. Her skirt rustles loud as she bunches it up in both hands, carefully kneeling on the bed, and Elsa crawls into the space between his legs so she can settle against his chest with her head on his shoulder - close enough to hear his breathing, and the deep, steady beat of his heart. 

The rest of the world seems impossibly far away. Her own heart thuds with a surge of possessiveness, rising up and sprawling out along her veins in the same breath, the steady chant of _mine_ sunk deep into her bones. She only lets it out in the darkness, safe and secret where no one can see. She feels like she could do anything.

His cheek is close enough to feel her own breath rushing warm back to meet her when Elsa tilts her head back, the contours of his skin like distant hills after dusk - and she wants him so much it feels like she might burst with it, her skin stretched tight over this impossible need. I love you, she thinks, with a strange sort of giddiness, and reaches a hand up to gently find his mouth, her thumb catching the corner before stroking along his lip.

No one can see, she thinks, and then stretches up, and presses her lips to the side of his mouth.

Hans carries on breathing slow and deep and oblivious, a wall of solid warmth up against her. Elsa stays there for the space of a heartbeat, and then pulls away with the faintest click of moisture and rests her head by his neck again. 

She kissed him, and the world didn't end. No blizzards. No ice. At least if she ever accidentally curses him she'll be able to fix it, Elsa thinks, and an unhappy kind of giggle threatens to bubble out of her throat. 

There's a laugh from the courtyard, loud and unabashed and with a high lilt to it that makes her think of Anna; and that thought hangs for a moment, testing the air, before Elsa turns her face to his chest and closes her eyes. Sleep comes surprisingly easy, as her thoughts drift between the two people she cares for most in the world.

 

"Elsa," someone is saying, and when she opens her eyes the first thing she sees is a sliver of midnight blue amid the black, the stars still bright outside the window. She tries to grasp for an idea how much time has passed and finds nothing, off-balance and disorientated like she's missed a step on the stairs - and then there's Hans, his arms loose and heavy around her ribs.

"Elsa?" he says, again, and she thinks she can see the shine of his teeth when she blinks and tilts her head up towards him, like he's smiling. "We should get you out of that dress."

She narrows her eyes, before remembering he probably can't see that, and lets his words hang. "... and into your nightgown, I meant to say," Hans adds, and huffs out a breath. Elsa hides her laugh in his neck, drunk and easy with sleep. I love you, she thinks, and for a moment the thought is nothing but wonder.

"Come on," Hans says softly, tinted with his smile, and pulls his arms away to set his hands either side of her waist and urge her forward. Every movement is stark and loud in the silence, the castle cold and quiet and empty, and it seems to take an age to get her legs over the edge of the bed and her feet onto the floor. For an unsteady, breathless moment she has no idea where he is.

"Let me," Hans says, and finds the dress fastenings at the back of her neck before she does. His fingertips brush hers and Elsa twitches away in surprise, touches her hair instead - it's still stiff and pinned, a few loose strands tugging painfully as her fingers catch.

That wakes her up, enough for curiosity to uncurl. "How was your day?" she asks, as Hans starts to unlace her. She runs her hands over her braid carefully, finding the pins and pulling them out. 

He doesn't answer immediately, working quick and diligent to loosen the cord even in the almost-pitch darkness. "Quiet," he says, eventually. "Yours?"

"Wonderful," she admits, and for a moment almost feels guilty with it, until Hans laughs like a charm.

"I'm glad," Hans says, and the tips of his fingers are warm between her shoulder blades, her dress slipping open, before his mouth presses hot over her spine. Elsa shivers, her hand pausing as her braid starts to unravel.

"I've never had the chance to undress you before," he murmurs, a happy kind of mischief in his voice. Elsa plucks her tiara free from her braid and lets the weight of her hair fall back over her shoulder. Does _not_ consider wearing proper dresses more often, just for this, Hans teasing apart the laces and setting his lips over her uncovered skin.

The rest of her dress slips away quickly; Elsa gently tosses the pins and her tiara onto the bed before she pulls her arms out of the sleeves one after the other, Hans tugging her petticoat away in the same swift slide and her dress crumples onto the floor, resting heavy over her bare feet.

He must be kneeling behind her as his mouth finds the small of her back; his hands skimming over her hips, and Elsa lets her eyes drift shut and melts into it as he trails kisses from the base of her spine up to her neck. There's a lightness in the way he's touching her, his hands never quite resting anywhere, but it feels more purposeful than just teasing. Reverent, maybe.

She feels a little goddess-like. Elsa turns, her feet slipping out from the weight of her dress and she finds his arms and skims up, as Hans stills and just lets her touch him - his shirt is rolled up above the elbows, the waistcoat still there, the cravat gone and his collar undone enough that her fingertips find the dip of his collarbone. 

"Hans," she says, and only gets a breathy hum in response, thrumming next to her hand. "Get undressed."

"Okay," Hans says, distant and quiet, and it's a second before he moves to start unbuttoning anything. Elsa steps to the side, towards the bed, and pulls back the covers. The linen slides warm against her legs as she climbs in.

Hans starts to shuck off clothes, along with whatever had him hypnotised. "I'm glad we'd agreed that the best nightgown is none at all," he says, and Elsa hums a kind of laugh in response, gets to the middle of the bed and rolls onto her back so she can watch - he's a shadow against shadows but the edges of him are enough, a hint of movement in the trailing contrast.

"Come here," Elsa says, when he's done, and wonders if he can see her smile. She's on the dreamy side of tired, everything a touch unreal, and she waits until the mattress dips with the weight of him before rolling away, onto her side, and sighing happily when Hans slides close and skitters a hand over her waist. His mouth peppers kisses across the slope of her neck.

"Hans," she says, almost just for the way the sound wraps around her tongue, just to catch his attention, and he pauses, his mouth still close enough to feel the tickle of his breath. Elsa reaches over her shoulder, finding her hand brushing his neck, and trails up from there to rest her fingertips against his jaw. 

"Go to sleep," Elsa says, a bare whisper in the darkness, and sways into his heat until there's no point along her back where she's not pressed against him. 

The night tips towards dawn. The covers rustle as Hans sweeps his arm around her waist, holding her close as his knee knocks her thigh, and whispers goodnight into her hair. Elsa lets her hand drift from his cheek down to her front, fits her fingers in the space between his, and falls asleep.

 

She wakes to the sound of rain, and the warmth of Hans's arm still heavy across her stomach. The light is cold and even and grey when Elsa opens her eyes, late morning diffused by the clouds, and between one blink and the next she's more awake than she knows what to do with. 

Hans looks blissfully asleep, when she gets her elbows underneath her and rises up enough to look at him - sprawled out on his back with his neck long and his head drifted towards her, a hint of a smile in the bow of his lips, the permanent blush soaked warm through his cheeks. Even in the grey half-light, he looks beautiful. 

She's developed a terrible habit of watching him sleep, as a side effect of often being the first to wake. Elsa wants - oh, she wants so many things she doesn't know where to start, but carefully moving his arm off her and sliding close under the covers works well for the moment, propping herself over his elbow as she curls up against him.

She follows that with a kiss, left somewhere between his jaw and his mouth, and Hans makes a quiet sound like a breath momentarily caught; not quite awake, but close. Elsa presses another kiss above his collarbone and skims her hand down his chest, disappearing under the covers - and she hadn't forgotten that they were both naked, not exactly, but the memory rushes sudden and relevant as her fingers find his cock. 

Elsa lifts her head to look at him again, and then flicks her tongue over her lips and delicately pushes back the covers down to his thighs. His prick is skin-warm and thick against her hand when she touches him again, his pulse jumping just under the surface, and she bites down on the surge of want (the urge to wake him up rough and needy) and just focuses on drifting the loose circle of her fingers from the base to the tip and back again.

Patience, she thinks, and Hans shifts underneath her, a roll of his hips before settling. There's a kind of giggle threatening her throat but Elsa glances at his face and then presses her mouth to his chest, hiding the delight in his skin, and takes hold of his cock properly. Her thumb tucks over her nails, his skin sliding smooth and gorgeous against hers.

Heat pulses harder against her fingers as his prick starts to stiffen. Elsa rubs the pad of her thumb over the head when she reaches the top, thinks of all the times she's watched him do this to himself and squeezes slightly rough - Hans groans, arching shallow away from the mattress as he pushes into her hand, and oh, good. He must be awake.

She can feel herself blushing, but she lifts her head and grins down at him, as he blinks his eyes open. "Good morning," Elsa says, shameless and without stopping the slow pull of her fingers. Hans gazes up at her.

"Yeah," he manages, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he relaxes back onto the bed as he stares up in blissful disbelief. That dizzy warmth crashes through her and Elsa kisses his cheek just because she can, then the corner of his jaw, and then pulls back and glares when Hans reaches down and curls his hand on top of hers, squeezing her fingers like he's daring to direct.

"Hands off," she says, flexing her fingers to loosen his grip. "You're mine."

He laughs like it's been punched out of him, surprised in his happiness. "Yes, Your Majesty," he says, his smile slipping wide and bright as he closes his eyes again and grips his hand over the top of his thigh. 

It's his own way to control himself, Elsa finds, when she grips his cock a little tighter and watches his fingers dig into his flesh, arresting the buck of his hips. Oh, she likes that. She nuzzles up his neck, finding her nose tucking behind his ear, and whispers, "Good boy," just for the way he sighs open and helpless. 

The arm caught underneath her flexes and curls up, his hand finding her waist, and she revels in how completely he lets her own him even as he tries to touch her; his legs sprawling wide and his knee hitting hers, his mouth open and on her skin even though he keeps groaning desperately, even though all he can reach is her jaw as she pushes up and watches the slide of her hand. His cock runs stiff through her grip and this - Hans, utterly at her mercy - is one of her favourite things, but she feels incredible and wicked and capable of anything. She wants - something. More.

"Hans," she murmurs, turning her head towards him and finding his mouth a breath away. His eyes are closed, and for a moment she bites her lip, and just looks at him.

Hans opens his eyes. "Roll over onto your side, facing me," Elsa says, steel edged under her tongue, and pushes herself back to give him the space to move, teasing her fingers away from the tip of his cock.

He obeys quick and easy - a breath later and she's tight in his arms, face to face as they both lie on their sides, and his eyes are bright green and very close. The covers get kicked away entirely as Elsa throws a leg over his thighs, just to remind herself that this is hers.

"Like this?" Hans asks, and she can feel the rush of it over her lips. 

Everything. She wants everything.

"Perfect," Elsa breathes, reaching down between them to find his cock again, and she watches the flicker of his eyelashes as she cants her hips closer and guides him inside her. Hans wets his lips, the arm underneath her almost picking her up as he buries himself deep and she gasps, clutching at his side, stretched wide around him. "Perfect," she says again, and realises her eyes are closed, their foreheads touching as they share air.

It's hardly a move at all, to brush her mouth over his. Hans doesn't react, rocking his hips deep and achingly slow into her, so she does it again, their lips catching once before Hans stills and she opens her eyes and tilts her head back, an extra half inch of space to watch realisation dawn.

Hans is staring at her, eyes bright and wide and on hers before they flick down to her mouth - and then his hand is around the back of her neck and he's kissing her so hard it almost hurts. His mouth slides against her skin, a wet crush of his lips as Elsa surges into it and a curl of heat explodes low and tight in her belly - more overwhelmed by a _kiss_ than the thrust of his cock inside her.

" _Elsa_ ," Hans begs against her lips, a rough tug at her hair as his fingers tangle in it and he sucks at her open mouth. There's a hint of sharpness over her lower lip, a soft moan she can't help but she digs her nails into his back in retaliation, a smile twitching across her lips as he steals the air from her mouth. 

The chant of _mine_ is just a blur, buzzing under her skin, her world narrowed to the the gorgeous pull of his mouth over hers. He flicks his tongue along the edge of her lip and she arches into him, desperate to be as close as possible, and his nose bumps hers as Hans tilts his head and kisses the other side of her mouth - Elsa laughs into it and then shudders a happy gasp as he thrusts deep and stays there, rocking his hips as his tongue finds hers and, _oh_. 

She's sure she had a good reason for not doing this months ago but right now she can't quite recall it, as Hans grips her tight and kisses her like she's hiding secrets behind her teeth. They kiss endlessly, wet and messy, and Elsa thinks of storms as she surges hot and finds another angle she can touch him from, his mouth never leaving hers for more than a moment. Her skin is tight where his hand presses over, caught, and with no want to be anywhere but here.

That thought startles her, for a second. Elsa tilts her face down and away, just enough to catch her breath because he's overwhelming and the stutter of her heart needs a moment to catch up to the racing of her blood - and after a few breaths she looks up without a thought, and catches Hans watching her from an inch away. He looks as wrecked as she feels, hopelessly enraptured.

Elsa covers the breathless difference between them and kisses him again. It feels like there's no space along her body where they're not touching, gloriously buried in the heat of him locking around her and next to her and inside her as his hand skims down to her hip and hauls her closer. 

He keeps begging her name into her mouth, swallowing her gasps and panting hot against her tongue as it teases along his - she doesn't want to stop, her nails scratching up his spine before she fists a hand in his hair. Occasionally he scatters his mouth away, across her cheek or along her jaw but always only for a second, like he keeps forgetting he's allowed to kiss her properly and always surges back with a stunned kind of heat.

Thunder cracks in her veins and her heart is hammering and in the crash of it she throws her weight forward and pins him on his back again, both hands wrapping around his jaw as she holds him still and kisses him thoroughly. Mine, she thinks, light headed and giddy but he keeps gasping as she does and it's no surprise at all to find how much she adores that. 

She claims him with a curl of her tongue and the roll of her hips, merciless in drawing him deep and devouring his groans as Hans clutches at the thick of her thighs and desperately holds on. When she comes it's huge and full-bodied and ruthless, surging forward as her spine pulls tight like a branch caught by the wind and Elsa pours her breathless gasps into his mouth, shivering until it slips away, the wave crashing through her. 

She rests her forehead against his for countless rabbit-heart beats and then pushes up, everything loose as she catches her breath, and jerks with an aftershock as the angle changes and Hans tries to surge up after her.

Elsa spaces her fingertips along his collarbone, pushing him back down. "Stay where I put you," she murmurs, and Hans slips back easily, gazing up at her like she's promised him the world. His hands brush down her thighs, until his fingers tuck in the crease behind her knees, and Elsa looks at him until the need to be kissing him again tips into urgency.

It's slower, and a little less crushed, her fingers combing up into his hair and every movement sparking like lightning when she starts to roll her hips again. Hans shudders underneath her like he's desperately close and her nerves crackle over-stimulated and aching but it's perfect, squeezing tight around him and kissing him relentlessly and Elsa licks the moans off his tongue as he comes, grinning against his mouth. 

In the breath after Hans murmurs something against her lips, something that vibrates through her flesh but she can't hear the words over the pounding of her heart. When she pulls back his eyes are closed, looking lost to the world. "Hans," she says, the edge of a question to it but he just hums quietly and drifts a heavy hand up her back, a curl of her hair snagging tight as it tangles between his fingers. 

The rain continues, pattering soft and endless outside her window. Elsa watches the flush of his cheeks until Hans opens his eyes and grins, wide and genuine and happy, his face brightening with it, and Elsa smiles back like she can't stop the warmth from spilling over her cheeks. I love you, she thinks, the words hidden safely under her tongue, and then she brushes a thumb across his mouth and kisses him again.


	21. no one is chasing you but me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [this poem](http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/post/37916144081).
> 
> So, I accidentally lied. This is not the last chapter. There's still one more to go, and I'm 99% sure on that being the last one, and then the fic that will not end will actually be over. \o/!?  
> (I'm sorry. Writing is hard. I will do everything I can to get the actual final chapter up next sunday!)

"Please don't stop," Hans murmurs, and Elsa can't stop the laugh in her throat from bubbling up, her mouth pulling wide and away from his.

"Sorry," she says, and kisses him again in apology. He's naked and ice-bound to the headboard by his scarf-wrapped wrists, and Elsa kneels between his spread legs and keeps one hand fisted tight in his hair just for how much he likes it. Her fingers are a tease along his cock, too light to be anything but maddening.

It's a year to the day since Hans was hauled chained and defiant into her throne room, but she has no intention of mentioning it. Her day has been long and quiet and irrationally unsettled, a catch in her throat like she took an extra breath and can't shake it, but the summer evening has finally slipped into darkness and there's nothing except Hans, warm and pliant and begging beautifully beneath her.

Elsa breathes out. There's no reason at all to think something might have happened but, still, she's glad the day is over.

Hans arches up, searching for her mouth and coaxing her close when he finds it, a flick of his tongue against her lips and she follows him back down with an ease she still delights in, despite _weeks_ of this - of finding out how often Hans will kiss her given the chance, how he sucks in a breath every time she kisses him first, how she likes to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and wordlessly command him.

Twice she's been late to a meeting because she was too busy exploring his mouth, tasting the hitch of his breath as she tugged at his hair. The first mistake was a day after her jubilee, when she was briefly balancing on the idea that maybe she could still keep her distance, that she could keep the kissing like another trick to command him - but then Hans followed her out of bed and caught her by the door and kissed her so sudden and thorough that she was lost as soon as she opened her mouth to protest.

("I would have done that months ago if I'd known it would be so easy to keep you here," he had said, after she wriggled out from having the door frame digging into her back. "I would have frozen you to the spot," Elsa countered, and found herself kissing him again before she could find the will to leave, turning slow and searching and intense as he pinned her against the wall, both hands buried in his hair and no idea of the time passing.)

It turns out, she really can do nothing but kiss him for hours. Even in the lazy mornings when they're both sleep-warm and naked and Hans is scattering kisses across her skin at least half of them find her mouth, somehow, and linger the longest. He watches her in the breaths between, his expression small and private and unreadable, but he covers it easily with another press of his lips over hers and sometimes she pins him to the bed just to remember what it feels like to be in control of this. 

That, at least, hasn't changed - his eager desperation to be tied down and used, the way his breath slips ragged when she digs her nails in, but she's learnt that he likes to bury himself between her thighs and then kiss her as soon as she's finished, and even when his wrists are bound he'll still do anything to touch her.

Hans whines as her fingers drift over the warmth of him, not touching his skin at all. " _Please_ ," he begs, bursting hot against her mouth and Elsa grins and gives in, squeezing her fingers rough and kissing him harder when his thighs jerk against hers.

Later, when they're both sated and slipping towards sleep, Elsa lifts her head to reach for the oil lamp and catches the glint of the cell door still standing open. It's rarely closed these days, Hans only wandering in there for a change of clothes as everything else he has finds its way into her room - the books she gave him back on her shelves, the riding crop hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe, and it's not like he has many things that are _his_ but he's still somehow seeped into every angle of her life, settled inextricably in.

It seems silly to keep it, when the only boundary between them is the way she still can't say the words out loud, despite the way she pours it into his skin with every kiss. She wants to forget he's anything but _hers_ , that if he had the choice a year ago she wouldn't have this now, and behind her Hans makes a soft noise and shifts, his arm sliding further around her waist.

Elsa waves her fingers, and makes the door dissolve away into nothing. 

"Huh," Hans says, even though she didn't realise he was still awake, and when she flips her head to look at him over her shoulder he smiles, and darts forward to kiss her with a breathtaking kind of focus. 

 

A week later, and, "Did you notice the clause they're trying to slip in?" 

"What - oh. Stop skipping ahead," Elsa says, and wriggles back against him, deliberately distracting. His arms are looped loose around her ribs and his legs bracketed either side of her as she leans against his chest, and she's meant to be working - a renewal of a long-standing treatise that should be simple, but Hans isn't the first one to tell her to concentrate. 

"Stop reading so slowly and turn the page," Hans says, tightening his grip as he nuzzles into the curve of her neck, not paying attention in the slightest. His mouth brushes warm over her skin.

"I'm being careful," Elsa says, a breezy kind of lightness as she puts her thumb by the last paragraph she checked. "My father," she starts, and there's the usual weight but it's okay, she can talk about this, "Warned me about this duchy in particular. I'm checking everything twice and letting you read it too just to be sure I don't miss anything."

The slide of Hans's mouth pauses, for a second. "Oh," he says, and huffs a laugh that pushes against her, lingering and warm. "I'm not just here to keep you entertained?"

"I trust you," Elsa says, soft and serious and when she tilts back to kiss him he's right there, his mouth hot against hers. She sinks into it for a long, slow moment and then pulls away, looking up (her heart jolts, once, even though his eyes are closed and his lips still parted, like he's waiting for her to come back) before she settles back against him, playfulness coming easy in the lightness of her chest. "And I thought you could be useful."

"For a change," Hans says, a citrus bite behind it but he smiles when she glances at him, catching the curl of his mouth at the edge of her eyeline. "I would be delighted to help."

"Good. Pay attention," Elsa says, and holds up the papers again. 

The morning is creeping towards midday when they finish, the light setting everything golden and the shadows short under the window. Their notes scatter across the margins (Hans stole her pen at one point when she refused to write down his suggestion of charging more for ice, and never gave it back), and he kept eagerly distracting her whenever he reached the end of the page before she did, but it's been as thoroughly checked as she can allow and when she relaxes back against him Elsa has the inertia to just stay, and close her eyes for a moment.

"Tell me a story," she says, without thinking, the urge to stay right here and do nothing but revel in this quiet moment.

Hans draws in a breath - and then there's a knock at the door, three precise taps. Elsa opens her eyes, brows creasing.

"Your Majesty? An unheralded ship has arrived in the harbour," Kai calls, and Hans's jaw snaps shut with a click, a huff of annoyance that rushes quick and warm down her neck. Elsa hides her smile under the press of her teeth.

"We believe it's from the Southern Isles," Kai continues, and then there's a pause, as Hans goes very still around her, his movement noticeable only in the absence of it. "They sent a message ahead saying they wish to speak to Prince Hans."

There's a sudden tightness in her throat but she frowns and swallows past it, digs out her voice. "Did they give a reason?" 

"No, Ma'am. Shall I tell them you're receiving petitioners in the throne room tomorrow, and they may gather their thoughts until then?"

Elsa glances down, to where Hans's arms cross over her ribs. Her hand is curled over his, her thumb tucked into the dip of his wrist. _He's right here, and not going anywhere_ , Elsa tells herself, even as Hans stays silent and still and completely unhelpful.

"No. I'll see them now. Show them to my sitting room," she calls, and presses the tip of her tongue under her teeth. "Post guards outside."

"Very good, Ma'am. It's... just one man, it seems."

"Who?" Hans says, and Elsa sucks in a short breath. It wasn't loud, but if Kai heard -

"He didn't give a name," Kai says, without inflection, like he was simply continuing his sentence. Elsa breathes out, and doesn't feel reassured in the slightest.

"Thank you. Tell him... I will be there shortly," Elsa says, and can't quite make herself move. Hans breathes easy and even behind her, his warmth pressing into her skin in a dozen places, and he still doesn't say anything even as Kai leaves with a polite acknowledgement.

Elsa finds the steel under her tongue, beneath a swell of anger that feels both justified and entirely out of place. "Who is it?" she asks, her voice level enough to surprise her.

"I don't know," Hans bites out, and then swallows. Elsa shifts, leaning to the side so she can twist and look at him properly, and finds him staring at the door, his jaw working like he's trying to clear a taste out of his mouth. 

"It could be one of my brothers," he continues, and Elsa doesn't allow herself to be surprised that he's sharing this, the unfiltered click of his thoughts. "But they never fail to introduce themselves. It could be any one of a number of courtiers, but they don't usually travel alone. It could be someone I've never met. I have been gone for over a year," he says, and looks at her, his face softening into a lopsided kind of smile like a shared joke.

"Do you have any idea why they're here?"

"None at all. Perhaps they heard of the success of my imprisonment and hope to send more prisoners here. Perhaps one of my brothers has died," he says, looking away, and she knows how to read him but that's too complex and too short-lived to pin anything down, a taste of something like disappointment before he's moving on. "Maybe they're sending a late birthday present."

Elsa is still echoing out the last sentence as that one arrives, and it takes her a moment before she considers how she has no idea when that is. "When -?" she starts, after the pause, and Hans is already shrugging. 

"Oh, midwinter. I did say late. Shall we go?"

"Yes," she says, without thinking, curiosity triumphing over the unease that keeps trying to seep into her lungs, and Hans's arms slip from around her waist as she slides off the bed. Her feet touch the floor, the wood warmed by the sun, and sense catches up with her. 

"Wait, no," Elsa says, turning around to fix her gaze on him. "You're not coming with me."

"It would be best for both of us if I do," Hans says, his arms drawn tight either side of him as he starts to sit upright, and Elsa narrows her eyes. He holds her gaze steady. "I don't know who he is, but I don't want you facing him alone."

"I won't be alone. I have guards," she says, clenching her hands. 

"I know how to deal - "

"You are a prisoner," Elsa cuts across, and remembers it more clearly than she likes to. It's not something she likes to hold over him, even as she recognises the absurdity of that, and brushes past. "He will see you when I say he can."

Hans stares at her, until: "Of course, Your Majesty," he says, with a respectful incline of his head.

Elsa feels it like something's crushing ice against her spine, unexpected and unpleasant but not capable of hurting her, and then takes a breath, and takes the reminder to be a queen. She sets her shoulders back.

"I'll send someone to fetch you, if I decide this man is allowed the audience," she says, flat and level, before she looks him over - he's half-dressed and dishevelled, splayed out of the bed like a tangible dream. "Get dressed," she adds, and turns towards the door.

She gets a step forward before Hans clears his throat. "You're still wearing your nightgown, Your Majesty," he says, and out of the corner of her eye there's that incline of his head again but he's smiling, bright and infuriating.

Elsa keeps her face blank, and glances down. Ah, she thinks, with a quirk of her eyebrows, and there's a tendril of an idea - the warmth of the morning still curled around her, the part that wants to stay right there, with him - and the lace hem catches at her fingertips as she pulls the gown off in one casual shift and throws it at his face.

Hans catches it, grinning, as Elsa turns and starts to walk towards the door again. Her bare skin glows in the scattered midday light. She's almost at the door and she throws a glance over her shoulder just before her dress starts to sweep across her skin, ice fluttering off her fingertips as she reaches for the handle, and Elsa holds the memory of his expression somewhere secret as the fabric reaches the floor and she steps outside.

It leaves her smiling, at least, as she locks the bedchamber door behind her with the single key and walks calm and slow down the corridor, settling her bones in the mantle of Queen. Whoever this man is, she has handled worse, and conquered it.

Kai is standing outside the door to her sitting room when she steps off the last stair and turns towards it. There's a palace guard either side of him, standing tall and stoic and expressionless.

"His name is Alfred Møller, Ma'am. He's King Christian's Private Secretary," Kai greets when she's close enough, his voice a rumbling whisper. "He appears to have paperwork with him," he adds, even quieter, and then straightens up and reaches for the door handle behind him.

It swings open. "Queen Elsa of Arendelle," he announces, loud and clear and like she's only just arrived, and steps aside.

Elsa swallows that down and nods to him as she steps through, hands loosely clasped, her cape glittering long, and finds Mr Møller sitting with his back to her. There are two sofas in front of the empty fireplace, side on and facing each other across the carpet, and he's chosen the one closest to the door.

He's older than she expected, in the second she has to study him unobserved - older than Kai, certainly, his hair greying and cropped close. His head is bowed, the sound of a scratching pen and the shift of his shoulder like he's writing, and then the door clicks shut behind her and Mr Møller glances behind him and unfolds quickly to his feet, leaving a rustle of paper on the cushions. He's dressed simply to the point of unfashionable, his beard wide and neatly trimmed, hiding the tension of his mouth.

"Your Majesty," he greets, and dips into a bow as clipped as his voice before his eyes dart high and sharp and past her like he's tracing the door frame. "Is Prince Hans unwell? We were lead to believe he had not been grievously harmed."

It takes her a moment to understand, and then - "No, he's perfectly healthy," Elsa says, holding back everything except the purse of her lips. "But you speak to me before you speak to any of my prisoners. Why are you here?" she asks, as pleasant as a breeze.

Mr Møller studies her, his mouth thinning small for a moment, and then dips his head in acknowledgement. She has the distinct impression she's being insulted, and is almost grateful for the year of practice she's had in dealing with it; Elsa holds herself steady, smiles politely, and thinks of the patience of glaciers.

"To deliver a message to the Prince, from King Christian," Mr Møller says. "And then we shall be on our way."

"And this message?" she inquires, effortlessly light. She wins the silent contest when Mr Møller looks away first, studying the door frame again.

"It really would be best if I could speak to Prince Hans as soon as possible. There's a long journey ahead," he says, and something about that pings strangely but she's distracted, thinking too much about the memory of warmth and all the possibilities of an unexpected visit. "You may stay, of course -"

"I may attend a meeting in my own castle? How kind of you," Elsa says, even as she knows she shouldn't.

Mr Møller blinks, but he's smart enough not to fumble to correct it. "Perhaps, with Your Majesty's gracious permission, Prince Hans could join us?"

Elsa holds his gaze. She could dig her heels in, but getting Hans here would mean she would find out what he wants, instead of this evasiveness that she's in no mood to continue - so she relents, for the moment, and turns to open the door.

Kai is still just outside, his back to her as he waits. "Fetch Prince Hans," Elsa says, and after a beat remembers to take the key from around her neck and hand it over.

"Of course, Ma'am," Kai says, accepting it with a lingering look at the little shining thing in his palm. He opens his mouth, like he's about to say something, with a darting look to the guard on his left - and snaps it shut and nods, hurries off with his chin held high. 

Mr Møller has sat down again by the time she's shut the door and turned back to the room. _Please, be seated_ , lines up on her tongue but Elsa swallows it down, because she knows far better than to be rattled by impropriety. She glides over to the other sofa with every intention of looking harmless and unaffected - she's being underestimated, and as much as that rankles she is in no hurry to prove him wrong. 

Not until she knows what he wants.

"How was the journey here?" she asks, and smiles politely when Mr Møller looks up. She has a dozen conversation topics on the tip of her tongue, the art of small talk so vital to unwanted guests, and even if the thought of talking about the weather with this man makes her want to freeze the room she is _better than that._

"Quite tolerable, thank you," he says, and looks down. 

Elsa tries again, and his answer is slightly longer but no less dismissive, and then she allows herself to give up. She waits, and dreams up snowflakes while Mr Møller shuffles through his papers.

The door jumps open, a startle of movement in the aching silence, and Hans strides through before Kai can decide how to announce him. His gaze crosses her with a twitch of a smile and then settles on Mr Møller, and, for a second, Elsa has the pleasure of seeing the shock glint across his face - before he conquers it, and smiles in that studied way that makes her think of glass, the way light refracts through every surface. 

"Alfred," Hans greets, holding himself tall and steady and regal. He got dressed quickly - buttoned neatly in more layers than she can immediately account for, everything matched and straightened. "What a surprise."

Mr Møller has set his papers to one side and is standing up when Elsa slides her gaze to him. "Prince Hans," he says, and dips into the same short bow she received. Hans doesn't return it. "It is a pleasure to see you looking so well."

They both sound overwhelmingly sincere. Elsa glances down, half expecting to see a stage. 

"Please," she says, and they both turn to her in a sharp kind of surprise. "Take a seat, both of you."

Mr Møller obeys first, turning his back on Hans as he folds back down to perch on the edge of the cushion. Hans walks the long way around to the sofa she's sitting on, stepping past the fireplace, and settles himself far enough away that another person could easily fit between them.

"Now," Elsa says, before Hans can say anything, and feels him glance at her. She keeps her eyes front and fixed on Mr Møller, ignores the want to reach across the ridiculous distance to the side of her. "If you could kindly explain?"

"Of course," Mr Møller says, and looks at neither of them as he gathers up his papers again, resting his wrists on his knee as he holds the page in front of him like a mirror. "Firstly, as you are here, Your Majesty, I believe there are some details that could be clarified."

Elsa frowns. "What details?"

"May I ask, on what grounds have you been holding Prince Hans for the past year?"

"What?" Elsa says. Hans leans forward, elbows pressing into his thighs as he links his fingers.

"I think we're all aware of the circumstances following my first visit to Arendelle," Hans says, light and careful.

"Of course," Mr Møller says, his voice sliding like sand. "However, Prince Hans has never been tried by any recognised court of justice. It was decided by the Westergaard family that Arendelle would be granted a year in which to enact any kind of justice it saw fit - a gesture of understanding, if you will, so the matter would not go unpunished. His immuration here was a courtesy that the Southern Isles was pleased to grant, but it has come to an end."

"We would have been here sooner, but the ship had to be prepared for the voyage ahead," Mr Møller says, his smile thin and humourless. 

There's an avalanche under her feet, the ground slipping fast away from her. Someone to the side of her draws in a breath, quick and sharp. "Wait, hold on," Elsa says, grasping at the first thought she can catch. "He was only supposed to be here for a _year_?"

"Yes. And now - "

Elsa cuts across with a sharp flick of her hand. He flinches, like he was expecting - _oh_ , she thinks. _Good_. There's not a snowflake to be seen, the room perfectly warm, but she's a breath away from sucking a blizzard out of the air. "And now Arendelle is supposed to release him?"

A ripple of something crosses Mr Møller's face, a distaste hidden in the mask of his hair. "In a certain sense, yes -"

"And if I refuse?" Elsa says, her voice steady. Hans, a shadow in the corner of her eye, catches her attention without moving at all.

"Ah," Mr Møller says. "Yes. I was warned there may be a difference in opinion on this. To release him would suggest he was ever yours to release. As I have said, Arendelle has no actual right to hold him here."

There's an edge of hysteria trying to slip in her throat, choke her, but the well of anger is deeper and she lets it solidify, freeze to an impenetrable core. "When Prince Hans was first brought here, I was told I wasn't allowed to refuse. There was a threat of execution," Elsa says, level. Hans draws his arms apart, unlinks his fingers, and there's a prickle down her neck like he's looking towards her but Elsa can't move her head.

"Merely an encouragement to take the opportunity we were presenting," Mr Møller counters. "It was understood that you were not the kind of ruler to deliver such punishments. The Southern Isles thanks you deeply for sparing his life," he says, and, for a moment, Elsa can only stare at him.

 _Righteous imprisonment_ , she thinks, cold and unbidden. Sunlight blocks across the room like hurdles, setting every shadow darker. 

"A year is enough, surely?" Mr Møller continues, a slant of his gaze to the ceiling. "Prince Hans was a benign force, if anything. As ineffectual as ever. I would rather not rely on such words, but the Southern Isles does not take kindly to any member of its royal family being held against their will."

"Is that a threat?" Elsa asks, disbelief tight on her tongue. 

"We would prefer it not to be. But I think we have enough doubt to make things quite uncomfortable. Are you considering going to war with the Southern Isles?"

Something in Elsa's chest jolts when Hans scoffs into the heavy silence, and she glances at him as he leans back. The distance between them stretches like eons. "I doubt you would have been sent to wage war on my behalf," Hans says, easy and light, like no one has just declared the impossible, like he's not being snatched away like an overlooked clause in a contract. "What do you want?"

"To ascertain that Arendelle knows she cannot hold you here any longer without consequences," Mr Møller says, and glances at Elsa once before turning his attention entirely to Hans. "And, if that is settled, I believe I can move on to the point of my being here today."

Elsa looks down at her fingers; eyes wide as she imagines twisting ice between them, and knows she could if she wanted to. A delicate show of her powers, just to prove a point - but it's not what she wants, even as the dismissal sits like an oil slick on top of her anger. Every thought is scattering too fast to concentrate on any, lung-deep panic and the loss already sick and heavy in her stomach but it's distant, unreal.

The idea that she's about to lose him is too absurd to consider, even as her heart thuds hard in her chest. She stands up, suddenly, before she's quite settled on the idea to do so, and walks towards the window just to give herself a purpose.

There's a weighty silence in the space she left behind. Elsa glances back and finds them both looking at her; Mr Møller with a cautious tightness around his mouth; Hans with bright eyes and a crooked kind of smile.

"Please, do go on," Elsa says, years of practice setting her still and she stays half-turned, warmth pressing down on the side of her face like a counterbalance to the ice fighting under her skin. There's a vibration in her bones, the urge to run, to fight, to _fix this_.

Mr Møller holds her gaze for less than a second, before his eyes flicker back down to his papers. Hans's smile spreads a little wider, still looking at her and Elsa holds onto the catch of her breath because, dumbly, all she can think is that this isn't hers anymore - even in the taste of what it could be if they ever let it out of her chamber. The dizzying thread of this secret between them, the edge of it where someone else might see.

The papers rustle as Mr Møller thumbs through them, pulling out a single sheet from somewhere in the middle of the thin pile. He holds it out, towards Hans. "On behalf of the Southern Isles, and in my capacity as the king's private secretary, it is my pleasure - "

" _Still?_ " Hans asks, his focus back in the conversation as he rocks his weight forward and stands up, stepping across the space. "It is reassuring to know some things will never change."

Mr Møller's gaze flicks up, the paper still held out between them. "I am happy to serve His Majesty in whatever capacity he appoints me. As, I am sure, are you. May I continue?"

"Please," Hans says, with a tip of his chin, and takes the sheet. He glances down, and turns it around in his hands. There's a faint _ping_ noise behind her, like ice crackling over a windowpane. Elsa takes a breath.

"It is my pleasure to grant you your new commission, overseeing the fleet currently protecting our trade interests in the far east," Mr Møller says, and sets the rest of the papers across his lap, his fingers linked on top.

"'Admiral'," Hans reads, with a hitch in his eyebrow. "I'm honoured."

"You were your brother's first and only choice. Who could be better?"

"Who else could be spared to the other side of the world," Hans counters, almost by rote as he keeps staring down at the paper, tracing the words.

"Your presence would be a great comfort to our trading partners," Mr Møller says, and Elsa drags her gaze across to him, just for a second, before it snaps back to Hans. The other side of the world, she thinks, like a dream. She reaches blindly behind her and finds the windowpane warmed by the sun. "There are some minor difficulties. They will be smoothed out easily once a true representative of the crown is there to handle them."

"A true representative?" Hans echoes, and then, with a smile, "Oh. The weight of the king's word isn't enough. You need a prince."

"Yes," Mr Møller says, eyes hard. "And it is unlikely anyone out there will have heard of your recent transgressions and as such you will be perfectly adequate to represent the king."

Hans smiles - not wider, perhaps, but sharper, like the glass has tilted and focused the light. "Banishment," he says, an edge of laughter in it. "At last."

Mr Møller thins his lips, every angle of him tightening. "You may refuse, of course, and we will return to the Southern Isles immediately so you may give His Majesty your refusal in person. We sailed the _Princess Maria_ here," and Elsa watches the twitch of interest cross Hans's face, unable to do anything but listen as she waits for this to feel _real_ , "She's prepared for a much longer voyage. We expect to leave here without any pageantry."

"I would hate to disappoint," Hans says, and draws in a silencing breath when Mr Møller opens his mouth. "You seem quite certain I'm coming with you."

Hope, sudden and unexpected and out of place, flares in Elsa's chest. She clasps her hands together again. Mr Møller frowns. "His Majesty was, dare I say, quite pleased with this opportunity. The _Princess Maria_ and the Westergaard estate out there have both been signed over to you, to take ownership of once we arrive. He appears to think it would be good for you," he says, a sneer catching at the edge of his mouth before he bites the inside of his cheek, the ripple of distaste. 

"A chance to prove myself," Hans says, his smile drawing close. He steps back, dropping the commission on the seat behind him. "And an advisor?"

"I will be accompanying you, yes, to preserve the interests of the Southern Isles that you may have forgotten during your stay here," Mr Møller says. Hans doesn't react to the threat in his expression, the tightness of his lips.

"I always keep the interests of the Southern Isles at heart," Hans says, and if there's a joke in there Elsa doesn't have the background to get it. She flinches back, just a fraction, when the weight of his gaze falls on her like a blow. 

She needs everything to _slow down._

"Alfred," Hans says suddenly, still looking at Elsa. She feels rooted to the spot, like the ice she keeps pressing down has soaked fast through her shoes and into the floorboards. "Could you step outside for a moment?"

Mr Møller looks between them. "Ask Kai to show you the larkspur beds. They're particularly lovely this time of year," Elsa finds herself saying.

"It would be best if we left as soon as possible," Mr Møller starts, and stops with a jerk of his chin when Elsa flicks her attention to him. His mouth works silently for a moment, and then, "Of course. I'll - be ready to leave whenever you are, Prince Hans," he says, gathering himself together and finding his feet, striding across the room.

The door springs open before he can reach it. "This way, m'lord," Kai says, and holds it open until he's shuffled through. There's a low rumble of conversation, and the door clicks shut behind them.

"I don't think you realise how intimidating you look when you're angry," Hans says, smiling brighter when she turns her attention and finds him halfway across the space between them and still walking closer. Elsa opens her mouth, sucks in a breath to deny it or refuse it or say something to make all this not be happening - and then his hand is pressing along her jaw and Hans kisses her, hard and open-mouthed and like an invitation to violence.

She takes it. There's not a breath between them and she's got nothing left to lose, so she'll let herself have this: Elsa surges close as his arm crashes around her waist to pull her in and she fists a hand in his hair, pulls tight without breaking the kiss and feels the catch of his breath sharp against her teeth. It's not enough, even as he bites back and her shoulders hit the wall, the heat of him everywhere as he crowds close and kisses her like he's never going to stop.

The closest bare skin Elsa can find is just behind his ear; her nails dig in like she wants to sink through his flesh and hold him by his sinews and she's too furious to be savouring this, but the noise Hans makes burns into her mouth like a brand against her tongue. He pours himself into it like a goodbye and her cheeks feel wet and she can't _breathe_ -

Elsa breaks away, her head thudding against the plaster as her chest shudders, every breath ragged, her fingers loosening. Hans is as breathless as she is - she watches the heave of his chest and then looks up, finds him flushed and happy and the easy glint of his mouth like he knows something she doesn't.

"You knew this was coming," Elsa says, pulling everything back and eyes wide because _of course_ , how else could he be so _calm_ about this, but Hans recoils, the shock bright and genuine across his face. The certainty rushes out with the same speed it came in.

"Honestly, I did not," Hans says, his brows twitching tight and annoyed. His tongue flicks across his lips. "When I was sent here I was told my brothers were leaving me to rot - literally, those words - and there was never anything to say otherwise. I'm as surprised as you, Elsa."

His thumb brushes a damp trail off her cheek. Her anger's gone, when she tries to search for it; poured out with her certainty. She feels drained.

"I don't want you to go," Elsa says, closing her eyes, and it's not what she meant to say - too honest and raw but it's the one thought she can hold on to.

"Oh, thank goodness," Hans says, and her face flickers into a frown. "Neither do I," he says, and his mouth is soft against hers again, slow and gentle and everything she can't have. She lets him, for a moment, and then tilts her head away. His breath stays warm against her cheek. 

"But you have to go. I -- I have to let you go. I can't risk my kingdom for you," she says, eyes still closed like that will stop any of this being real and that's it, everything that's weighing her to the ground. She has a choice but she can't possibly make it - can't demand that he stay, just for her. "And you've just been given everything you've ever wanted."

Hans laughs. Elsa frowns and blinks her eyes open, just as he cups her jaw in both hands and flicks his gaze up from her mouth to her eyes. 

"The truth is, if they'd given me this choice a year ago, you never would have seen me again," he says, and Elsa swallows and looks away, to where the sunlight paints slips of gold across the floorboards. His leg is still pressed between hers, pinning her in place.

"And, I never..." he starts, his attention trailing off with the slip of his hand down her neck, pouring over her collarbone and resting somewhere above her heart. His fingertips brush short flicks like they're tracing patterns in her skin.

He's not looking at her so Elsa lets herself look back; the dark fan of his lashes and the familiar constellations of his freckles, the curve of his lips as a smile catches in the corners and slips into his voice.

"I've never said the words out loud and meant them, so please forgive me for being a little nervous," Hans says, snapping his attention from his hand to her eyes. Elsa's breath catches, the jerk of it under his fingertips. "The truth is, I don't lie nearly as much as you think I do. My happiness depends entirely on you, Elsa, far more than any jailer has sway over their charge.

"That fool may think he can declare I am no longer a prisoner of Arendelle, but he could drag me away in chains and everything important about me would still be right here. Elsa -"

"Stop," Elsa says, and puts a hand over Hans's mouth, her fingers tight against his lips. He blinks, rocked into silence. She's got nothing left to lose and if anyone's going to say it it has to be her, first, after she's poured it into his mouth so many times. 

"I love you," she says, holding his gaze, and lets everything else go in her shaky exhale.

"Oh," he says, and his breath rushes warm and laughing against her hand. She takes it away to slide down his chest, fingers snagging under his lapels, suede under her thumb. "Good. Because I'm quite desperately in love with you."

Elsa breathes, damp and shivering and Hans kisses her, once, fleeting, far too quickly. He pulls back, a hand barely there each side of her throat, his thumbs brushing her jaw.

"Now," he says, the soft stroke of his thumb with no purpose other than to touch her. "With your permission, Your Majesty, I believe neither of us want me to go anywhere -"

"Of course not," Elsa sighs, everything rushing back in and she sinks under his hands. "But -"

"Elsa," he says, and she wants to suck the laughter out of his mouth. "How many times do I have to say I would do anything for you? I'll do anything to stay with you, here, if you'll have me."

"Yes," Elsa says, the force of it almost surprising her, when it feels like the world's still trying to tilt away under her feet. "Of course," she says, and holds the flash of his smile like a beacon even as she sighs and looks away. She's wrecked with it, but the skip in her heart doesn't make this any easier. "I can't -- promise anything. Anna, and the kingdom, and -"

"Then I will spend the rest of my life making myself worthy of their forgiveness," he says. Elsa looks up.

"I have a plan," he says, and kisses her again, mouthing soft and searching until she catches the whisper of it against her lips. 

"Trust me," Hans says.


	22. the sweet invention of a lover's dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Do I Love You Because You're Beautiful](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqapDK1ffzM) (the Santino Fontana & Laura Osnes version, of course)
> 
> You're amazing for sticking with this fic for so long. Thank you so, so much - every comment and kudos and mention on tumblr has made me so happy, and I treasure every one. I'll be moving this over to my main AO3 account at [afterism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism) in a week or so*, because it's time to admit this beast belongs to me, and I'm on tumblr at [onlylostphysics](http://onlylostphysics.tumblr.com/) if you wanna come talk to me. ♥
> 
> (I am so nervous right now. orz.)
> 
> *(now moved! fic was formerly under the name animmouse, because I started posting it on a kink meme and it was such a departure for me in so many ways (WIP! long fic! het!!) that I wasn't ready to admit it was mine.)

"I've been trying to tell you for months," he says, his hands cradling her wrists, the blue of her veins stark under her skin. "But I figured you wouldn't believe me."

There's still a tremor in her hands and the warmth of his skin is the only thing grounding her as she floats, dizzy and breathless, but he _loves_ her and it feels as real as the too-quick beat of her heart, as the moment before she finds the potential of ice in the air and shapes it into anything she can imagine.

"I do now," Elsa says, and darts forward to kiss him for no other reason than because she can. Hans lets go of her fingers to cup her jaw again, losing himself in it, and there's too much space between them - he lead them back to the couch instead of keeping her pinned to the wall, her knees weak and useless, and now they sit side by side, pressed together from thigh to knee. She wants to climb into his lap and never stop kissing him, luxuriate in the simplicity of being as close to him as possible.

Be sensible, she tells herself, and pulls away, resting her forehead against his. She can be as selfish with his time as she wants once he's _here_ , once they've fixed this.

"Tell me what to do," Elsa says, pulling back just far enough to see him, so the temptation to kiss him again slips out of reach.

Hans ducks his head, the pull of his mouth like a hook. He laughs, soft and self-depreciating. "I'm not used to laying out my plans for other people," he admits, and looks up, reaching over to gently hold the line of her neck again as though she could be concentrating on anything but him. "I hope you appreciate how strange this is, for me."

"Would it help if I ordered you to explain?" Elsa says, and can't stop the smile in her lips, the stretched warmth in her cheeks. She's dizzy with it, this happiness that's soaking through her skin. There's a distant part of her making angry lists about responsibilities and time wasting and the proper conduct of a queen, but she ignores them with all the ease that the promise of him inspires.

"I think that could get us sidetracked," Hans says, low and wicked and he holds her still to kiss her again, a hitch of his breath against her mouth as she clutches at the buttoned edge of his jacket and doesn't let him pull back. "Here?" he murmurs, thrumming through her lips.

"I don't mind making that awful man wait a little longer," Elsa breathes, and wraps a hand around the back of his neck to kiss him deeper as his fingers skim along her thigh, hitching her dress up to spill high across her legs. Heat blushes across her skin, the brush of his hand trailing sparks along the soft skin above her knee.

He surges into it as he shifts, turning on the twist of his foot and moving without breaking the kiss - one hand grips the back of the couch and his fingers dig deliciously in her thigh, anchoring himself before his knees press against hers, nudging them apart. Hans lingers, for a moment, tall and overwhelming and intense in the crush of his mouth before he starts to sink down, her legs falling wide as he kneels between them.

Elsa keeps her hands either side of his jaw, bending close to keep kissing him and his fingers splay over the inside of her thighs. There's the soft thrum of a moan - she pulls back to watch him, his dark eyes and red-rushed mouth, and she savours the promise of it for a breathless second before she sweeps her fingertips through his hair, and urges him forward. 

Hans sucks a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the skin halfway along her thigh. He trails closer, hot and eager and perfect as her fingers tangle in his hair, her head drifting back to rest against the cushioned slope of the couch, and her lashes flutter shut as Elsa melts into it - and then the door starts to rattle.

Her eyes fly open. There's a single rushed exhale against her skin then Hans is up and gone, almost tripping over his heels as he ends up near the fireplace, and Elsa only just thinks to flick down her dress before the door springs open and Anna tumbles in like a reminder of the outside world.

"Princess Anna," Kai announces, and closes the door again without making eye contact with any of them. Anna steadies herself, and beams at her, and Elsa's heart is trying to hammer its way out of her chest. She grips her hands together in her lap, her knuckles grinding, something like a smile on her face but she's too shaken to be sure.

"Elsa! Sorry, Kai couldn't get the the door open. Hi," Anna says, linking her fingers in front of her, and then flicks her eyes to Hans - he's standing stiff and formal in the glance Elsa allows herself, his hands linked loosely behind his back, mouth bruised and his hair slightly mussed and there's a jolting skip in her chest - and Anna's mouth is such an instant transformation into a scowl that Elsa would laugh if she felt in control of her throat. 

"Not you," Anna says, and turns her attention back to Elsa, her smile back and bright as she crosses the room and perches beside her. She's half turned and barely on the sofa as she keeps her back to Hans, deliberately between them. 

"So, about that boat in the harbour," she says, wrapping her hands over the tight ball of Elsa's fingers.

"It's from the Southern Isles," Elsa confirms, and looks down, turning her palm over to clutch back at Anna's hands. Anna shifts closer, her knees knocking against hers.

"Right, yes, I saw the flag. Um, why is it here? Because the last time they showed up unexpectedly they brought that jerk back," Anna says, with a grimace, "And if they're here to drop another prince on us then, you know, we could totally say no."

"No, it's -- not that," Elsa says, and now would be the perfect time to explain but every possible word for it has escaped her, Hans's name the only thing on her tongue. She can't lie to Anna but she can't make herself be honest either, not when the sudden, familiar fear that she’s going to _hurt her_ strikes fast and low.

"It's here to take me very far away," Hans says, seating himself on the opposite couch.

"Great," Anna says, and then turns back to Elsa, sees her staring blank and pale at the tangle of their hands. "Oh. Not great?"

 _I don't want him to go_ sticks somewhere in her throat, _and I don’t want you to hate me_. This is still new, and fragile, and still could be so easily lost. 

Hans leans forward, the calculated shift to catch her attention. Anna glances at him frowning, and doesn't let go of Elsa's hands, and - Oh. Perhaps that's everything she needs. These two people are everything she cares about. She can live with a broken heart if it means Anna is happy, but she's not letting this go without _trying_.

"Anna," Elsa says, and rubs her thumb over Anna's knuckle as she bounces her attention back to her. She forces herself to hold Anna's gaze. "I have a very big favour to ask of you."

 

"Your Majesty," Hans says, and drops to his knee in front of her.

There's a ripple across the Great Hall, whispers and mutterings as Elsa holds herself steady and looks nowhere but him. The crowd shifts like a swarm of sparrows at the edge of her attention - despite the short notice there's a proper audience, courtiers and gossips and her subjects all piled into the hall on the promise of a spectacle. They've brought the scent of late summer in with them, hay and warm skin and the salt spray of the docks.

The fact of the _Princess Maria_ being a Southern Isles ship spread fast as a rumour, as it sat huge and gaudy in their harbour, and Elsa's only heard the distant hum of speculation but there's Hans's name, over and over. Anna only knows what she's going to do, without the _why_ that threads through it - everyone else has only guesses, and the immediate vision of Hans being lead into the hall, unchained and flanked by guards and walking so tall it almost looks like a procession. 

Anna stands to the left of her, and Elsa can't let herself look but she can imagine the frown perfectly, the twist of Anna's mouth and the knot of her eyebrows as she stares him down. This is all the favour she asked; just to stand there, and not hate her for letting him stay. It felt like more than she could possibly hope for.

Elsa will have tell her, soon. Just - not right now, not when it's still private and on the verge of spilling one way or another; every change that's about to happen is fine as long as she can keep the promise of him like a secret.

"Prince Hans," Kai begins, holding up the scroll she gave him in the hasty dash to make this work. "By the decree of the Southern Isles you were sentenced a year under Arendelle's charge to serve the punishment for your treason.

"This has been served without any further threat or insult to this nation. 

"You are hereby and henceforth released from Arendelle's charge," he reads, and rolls the paper up. At least she learnt something from the unexpected shift of her world - present something as the truth with enough conviction and everyone will be too baffled to disagree. 

The voice of the audience rises and falls, petering off as Elsa doesn't move for a long, slow moment.

"You may go," Elsa says, and makes sure Mr Møller heard that, standing somewhere near the great oak doors with his arms folded tight across his chest and his lips thinned to the point of disappearing, leaning sharply away when a servant jostles past him. He meets her eye for less than a second before dropping his gaze to Hans again, still kneeling in front of her.

Anna says nothing, although Elsa has the unshakable impression she wants to. She flexes the grip of her fingers over her knuckles, loosens it, and waits for him, the barest flutter of nerves somewhere low in her stomach because she _trusts him_ , even now, even when he could say anything and walk away.

She'd been thinking of this as the final hurdle to getting everything she wanted. She's only just realised it might be test. 

"You have my eternal gratitude, Your Majesty, for allowing me to remain here after what I did," Hans says, his head bowed but his voice is clear and carrying; a hush falls over the crowd as they needlessly strain to listen. Elsa presses the tip of her tongue against her teeth.

"I am truly sorry for the deception and hurt I caused," he says, his voice slipping low and imploring, his head still down. She can see the sweep of his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "But my only regret of the past year is that I have done nothing to pay recompense for my actions."

He looks up - and it's an act, of course it is, they both know exactly how this is going to end, but the wide-eyed earnestness rings true in a way she didn't expect. Elsa considers him like art, admiring the depth of his performance, and tries not to smile.

"With your gracious permission, Your Majesty, I would choose to stay, and do whatever you desire of me," he says, and she has to bite her lip to stop herself returning that lighthouse-flash of a grin, "to pay penance for my crimes, until the people of Arendelle find me worthy of their forgiveness."

The uptick of noise is enough, as Hans's act sinks in and spreads, that Elsa can deny herself the want to find Mr Møller's face in the crowd. She scans the audience without focus instead, the sway of nudges and whispers and hopes the blank set of her expression reads controlled calm, rather than a complete lack of surprise. 

"I will do anything I can to earn your forgiveness," he adds, soft, almost too quiet to be heard over the cacophony and she looks back to him in a more genuine kind of startlement. There's no script for this, exactly, but as an opening it will do.

"I am willing to take that chance," Elsa says, holding his gaze, and the flicker of his smile sets sparks in her veins. She can do this, if he keeps looking at her like that. She could do _anything_.

She lifts her chin, raises her voice, but doesn't stop looking at Hans. The crowd falls hushed, again, the silence stretching out like open palms. "I can't speak for those around me, but I believe in the importance of forgiving those who truly and openly seek it. For their sake as much as our own.

"I believe you could leave here and never give Arendelle another thought, if you so wished. The fact that you're asking for this chance is enough to compel me to grant it." She takes a breath, flicks her tongue between her lips, and feels for the words like finding the potential of ice in the air. "I choose to forgive you, Prince Hans. You may stay in Arendelle, and earn its forgiveness in turn."

The scattered applause is a surprise - more so when it grows, and turns into cheers. But, then again, these are the same subjects who accepted her back with open arms after she buried her kingdom under ice, who love her despite everything she is - their capacity for forgiveness rivals Anna's.

For the first time, Elsa considers that this might actually _work_. Hans is smiling lopsided and bright-eyed when her attention falls back to him like gravity.

Everything starts to disperse, after that, the performance over. Kai gestures for the oak doors to be opened and Hans unfolds to his feet, with a brief wince from kneeling too long and a glance to Anna that's too shuttered to read, but he turns to her first.

"Thank you," he says. "For not saying anything against it."

Anna looks away with a flick of her eyes, a jerk of her shoulders that ends up more self-conscious than angry. "I nearly did. You still suck, but I'd do anything for Elsa," she says, and then catches sight of Kristoff and slips away with a fleeting squeeze of her hand.

Elsa watches her go, the sensation that she's being pulled in two different directions snapping back with a friction burn kind of warmth and Hans has moved closer when she looks back, Anna out of sight and the polite few feet between them cut precisely away. He's close enough that her skin prickles, like it's reaching out to him. The rest of the crowd seems very far away.

"Hi," he says, and Elsa wants to kiss him right now, the want of it so overwhelming that it's almost a relief when she spots Mr Møller pushing his way through the crowd. She's still in the mindset that the Great Hall always puts her in, solemnity and formality above all things, so her mouth finds the well-worn calm smile instead of the grin that wants to spill across her cheeks.

"Mr Møller," she greets, and Hans turns with a casual step that finds his shoulder brushing hers, falling into place beside her.

"The king will not be pleased," Mr Møller says, looking at Hans, his mouth short and thin. The scattering of glances towards them are, if anything, a reminder to hold herself steady. She sets her shoulder back, links her fingers, and buries the thrill of having him beside her somewhere secret, deep and quiet.

"Please send him my most sincere apologies," Hans says, and glances at her with a considering kind of smile, an invitation to the tick of his thoughts. "You can tell him I've finally found a valuable use of my time. I'm sure he will be gratified to hear that."

"Will you be returning the Southern Isles?" Elsa asks, dragging Mr Møller's attention to her as Hans fixes his smile like a mask.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he manages, darting his attention between them before it settles on her. "The king will want the news of Prince Hans's decision as soon as possible."

"Not on to the far east, then?" Hans says, and Mr Møller's mouth does a strange, inward thing under the frame of his beard, like he's biting the inside of his cheek. "Who has to go in my place?"

"Prince Edvin was His Majesty's next choice, if you were... unsuitable, in any way."

"Edvin hates long voyages," Hans says, his smile bright even in the corner of her eye.

"Indeed," Mr Møller says, and straightens up. "If you'll excuse me -"

Hans holds up his hand, and Mr Møller stops like he's been jerked on a string. "Were any of my things packed onto the ship, by any chance?"

Mr Møller frowns, hesitates, and for a moment Elsa thinks he's going to turn and leave without another word. "I believe so, Your Highness," he manages, and Elsa glances past him. The emptying of the crowd has left the position of her guards clear, spread uniformly across the hall, and Johann strides over when she catches his eye.

"Perhaps you could show a few of my guards the way? They'd be happy to collect it," she says, before her nod to Johann is cut across by Hans:

"Unless, of course, you plan on leaving her here and taking another ship back to the Southern Isles?"

The crease between Mr Møller's brows deepens, his lips tightening. "The Princess Maria was only yours on the condition of your acceptance of your commission and departure from Arendelle," he says, short, like there's ash on his tongue.

"Ah," Hans says, glancing at Elsa again. "How disappointing."

Mr Møller turns to go like a stiff breeze, and Elsa nods to Johann to follow him out. It's not an escort, exactly, but she sees no reason to say otherwise as three more guards fall into pace behind him and Mr Møller's walk turns into a trot.

The Great Hall isn't empty yet, but the bustle has drifted back to mostly staff and servants and those too caught up in talking to notice everyone else has left. 

Elsa looks to Hans and catches her lip between her teeth - he's turned to face her without moving at all, so close that a distant, sensible part of herself insists one of them should step back just for propriety's sake. She's the queen, it shouldn't be her.

"Welcome to your new home, Prince Hans," she says, instead.

"I'm honoured to be here," Hans says, and Elsa lets him catch up her hand, only arching an eyebrow when he brushes a kiss over her knuckles. She hides her smile in the twist of her mouth, letting it soak through her skin until she feels luminous with it.

 

Her bed feels very large, and very cold. The day has spilled into night and she's on the side of sleepy instead of tired, her thoughts still too busy from the long hours of all the decisions that have to be made when a prisoner unexpectedly becomes a guest. The empty door to the cell - or storage room, perhaps, again - is an extra block of blackness in the shadows of her chamber, standing like a visual cue for the ache in her hands, the absence of warmth against her back.

He's hers and he's staying and he loves her, but during the dizzy rush of making sure he wasn't going anywhere she hadn't stopped to consider that he wouldn't be _here_ , anymore. It's a foolish thing to pick over, she knows that, but it's the first time in weeks that she's lain in bed awake and alone.

Elsa is, if she's honest, waiting for something. Her thoughts are lingering at the other end of the corridor. In the arguments of where exactly Hans was going to stay, the guard house or the town or anywhere but the castle, Kai overruled it all by saying they had prepared one of the guest rooms for him - she can see it from her door, if she got up to look.

She gave him the key to her chamber, in the moment she had to say goodnight, pressed into his hand where no one could see even in the empty corridor. 

She doesn't know why she feels so nervous about it. Or -- she does, but the prospect of being caught is nothing to the want in her fingertips, the need to have him as close as possible. She recognises that might be a problem, one day, but there's a noise at her door like the faintest click of metal and nothing else quite matters.

The door unlocks and silently falls open, just enough for the dark shape of him to slip through and close it behind him.

"Elsa?" Hans whispers, and she pushes up to seating and lets the bedcovers slip down to drape across her feet, a shift in the shadows. The sky outside her window is a clear, stardusted blue, the sliver of moonlight setting every shape unknown.

"Hi," she says, and then Hans is across the room and kissing her, the mattress dipping as he crawls as close as possible. His fingers trace her jaw like he's fixing the shape of her in the darkness.

"I don't think I can survive not doing this every night," he says, hardly pulling away to breathe before he's kissing her again, the suggestion of movement as she sinks back down against the pillows and he follows, his knees either side of her thighs. He's half-dressed, Elsa belatedly realises, the press of linen against her legs but his back is bare when she clutches at his ribs, her other hand winding up into his hair and tugging, lightly, once.

He pulls back a fraction, his breathing ragged and hot against her mouth. She wants to chase his pulse with her tongue. 

"I don't intend to," she says, and he's lost the thread of the conversation, silently stealing her air. Elsa beams into the darkness and throws her weight over, Hans landing on his back with a winded gasp, and she finds his wrists and curls her fingers around them, straddling his hips as she pins his arms to the pillows.

"I have a plan," she says, murmured against his mouth - and in truth it's more of an outline, checkpoints sketching out into promises because for the first time she can let herself imagine it; the rest of her life, with him. He's staying. He's _hers_.

"Trust me," Elsa says, grinning with it, and seals it with a wet slide of her tongue that sends him groaning helplessly beneath her.

"With my life," Hans says, and offers up his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the song over the closing credits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRM70Jw7F4M)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you ♥


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